


all our own

by charizona



Category: Warehouse 13
Genre: AU Week, Alternate Universe - Hunger Games Setting, F/F, Trigger Warning - Mentions of Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-13
Updated: 2014-03-12
Packaged: 2017-12-29 05:42:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 44,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1001681
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/charizona/pseuds/charizona
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Look, I’m not going to beat around the bush here. You might win, but that’s not likely unless you’re a trained killer. I’m assuming that you’re not. So, my job is to give you my advice, help you as much as I can, and do everything in my power to make the Capitol happy. I don’t want to see you killed.</p><p>"You’re just kids. The truth is, one or both of you will die.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. late night

Myka wakes up as she falls out of bed.

Her chest heaving, her shirt damp and sticking to her skin, while the sheets around her suddenly feel suffocating. She cranes her neck to look out of the window. The district isn’t dark, it never is, but now, the sky is a deep red. She wants to turn on her light to read, finish that story about the girl on an adventure, but she will have to see where their electricity allowance is at for the week. It doesn’t make sense to her that District 5, who houses the power plants, the electricity, and the workers in charge of it for the whole of Panem, has an allowance for how much they're allowed to use. She decides to wait until the sun comes up so she can use the natural light.

She wonders if the Reaping is different everywhere. Though she supposes that the answer is yes, she can’t imagine how life in the other districts is like. She knows some districts are poorer, knows that a lot of citizens live harder lives than her own. She goes to school, works in her neighbor’s store when she’s not, and that's her life. Her mother works the nightshift at the power plant, but right now Myka knows she’s two bedrooms away, asleep, because of the Reaping.

Tesserae isn’t common in her district. Sometimes her family doesn’t have money for electricity, but they always have food on the table. She knows only some people, maybe three, who take out tesserae to feed their families. It’s noble, yes, but not needed. For her, it’s the only option this year. After their father lost his factory job, he blew their savings on alcohol and gambling. That was three months ago, and he hasn’t even started looking for a job. Myka had already contemplated applying after seeing her mother collapse from exhaustion one day, to maybe take the stress away. Myka’s father had come to her in the night, a little buzzed and slurring his words, and he’d told her it would be easier for everyone if she applied. She knows that her mother noticed when she’d brought home grain and bread and husks of meat, but no one had said a word.

She’s sixteen, almost seventeen, and she’s in that glass bowl 40 times.

She sits up, arching her back and stretching her arms high above her head. The sun rises over the horizon; she knows her family will still be asleep for some time. It's one of the few days the people are allowed to sleep in, though they do need to be up and ready on time. She goes downstairs, careful to avoid the creaks in the stairs. She passes her father snoring on the couch, still stinking of whiskey, and begins to make breakfast. The sound of food cooking is her only company, until eventually, the creak of the floorboards upstairs echo through the house.

Her mother shuffles into view, smiling weakly at the sight of food on the counter. Myka nods and gives her a quick hug, mostly to placate her mother’s tiredness, before she goes back upstairs to get ready. The air is thick with anxiety, mostly radiating off Myka, whose hands are shaking as she puts toothpaste on her toothbrush. She feels it even more so when her sister corners her in their tiny bathroom.

“Hey,” Tracy says, her voice quiet and cautionary. They never talk, they aren’t close. The last time Tracy had even looked at her, it’d been at school, almost three days ago. Myka glances at her, her toothbrush hanging out of her mouth. “Look,” Tracy pauses, running a hand through her light hair nervously. “Today will be fine.” It sounds more like a confirmation to herself rather than Myka.

Myka nods absently. “Thanks.”

“I found the tesserae papers,” Tracy admits, her words coming out fast and close together. Myka stares down at the sink, spitting out her toothpaste and watching her sister out of the corner of her eye. “You didn’t hide them very well,” Tracy continues, “and I heard Dad talking to you about it anyway. I just want to give you this.”

She holds out her hand, in her palm a silver chain coiled like a snake. It used to be their mother’s, she’d given it to Tracy when she turned sixteen. Myka feels a sudden rush of emotion, remembering the feeling of jealousy that had rushed through her upon watching her mother hand it over. Tracy had opened that small box, and in it something the two of them had seen many times around their mother’s neck. Myka never sees Tracy wear it, the initial novelty wore off and it seems to have been dismissed into Tracy’s dresser.

Myka shakes her head. “I can’t take this Tracy.”

“Okay,” her sister shrugs. "I’ll give it to you later today.” She slips out of the bathroom, leaving Myka alone with toothpaste on the corner of her mouth.

Soon, they are all out the door and heading to the district square, clean and dressed in their nicest clothes. Myka stands out, lanky and taller than most. Her father’s hair is grey, though it was dark once, while her mother and sister both have fair hair. Her mother is slight, with a kind face, the kind that smiles to strangers. Myka gets her dark curls from her father.

They don’t say goodbye, that makes it far too likely that Myka will never see their home again. Tracy grabs her hand and squeezes, giving Myka a smile before heading to the bystanders section. Myka wonders if she has the most names in the bowl. She wishes she knew how many there are total, so she could figure out her chances. As the square fills around her, her eyes fall to the ground. Logically, she knows her district has the smallest population, but now, standing with the other teenagers facing their deaths, she feels suffocated. She’s too busy thinking about her chances, the glass bowl filled with names, that she misses the film, the mayor’s introduction, all of it.

She looks up to find people staring at her, their eyes wide, and then her name in the silence of the square echoes off the nearby buildings. She feels her heart skip, catching in her throat, and with a deep breath, she walks up to the stage.

 

.,.

 

Miles away, Helena wants to laugh. It seems fitting that she be slaughtered two weeks before she’ll be out of the Capitol's grasp forever. Two weeks before she turns nineteen. Training for the games has been more of a release if anything, and she’s partly glad that she was able to prepare, even if it was only a little. A small part of her wishes she could see her brother’s expression or her mother break down to tears. Two more weeks and she would be living, but filled with grief, loss, and most of all, hate.

That morning she’d woken suddenly, breathing hard. Her throat had been raw and burning, flesh feeling like it'd been scratched a million times over. She remembers the intense visuals she’d seen; it's always the same nightmare. She’d rushed to vomit, her empty stomach heaving painfully as she braced herself over the ceramic bowl. Then, she’d went running. Running through the back alleys until the tears stopped and her legs were numb. The chill of the air had caught up with her about halfway home, raising small goose bumps on her arms and making her breath come out in small puffs of fog. The sun didn’t show itself until she was almost back to her apartment.

She focuses on the present, on the hundreds of girls in her district begging to go instead of her, hundreds who have dreamed of going to the arena, born to families of victors, who want to honor their parents. Helena waits on the stage, with her head high, her jaw set, and she resists the urge to run her fingers through her hair.

“Helena Wells,” the mayor asks, excited by the crowd response, eager for a volunteer competition. “Do you wish to participate in the 61st annual Hunger Games?”

In the richer districts, where they have literally hundreds of volunteers, they always ask the chosen tribute before having the volunteer competitions. Helena begins to grin at the other girls who want her to say no. And she nods. “I do,” she answers, and the crowd erupts in a roar of applause, even the other district girls clapping along as well. The escort waits until the crowd quiets before she moves on, and then her hand is in the bowl again, rifling around dramatically, and soon another eighteen year old is smiling beside Helena. His name is MacPherson; Helena vaguely remembers that it was his brother that won last year.

There are festivities in the square that usually last for hours after the reaping, but the tributes are loaded in the selected visiting rooms within the mayor’s building. Its hours before they’re even taken to the train. MacPherson, it seems, has a lot of people to say goodbye to. Helena has only one, who happens to be a previous victor, so she just sits in the visiting room quietly. After quite a while, it’s decided on the train that Xavier MacPherson, victor of last year’s games, will coach his younger brother. That means Helena is stuck with Caturanga, the ancient winner of the 24th games. James smirks at her, as if it’s a bad thing, but Helena knows that it’s anything but.

“Miss Wells,” the old man mocks, giving his voice a tone of fake sternness, and then Helena is falling into his arms, hugging him tightly. He’s the closest thing to family she has, he took over her guidance after her parents and brother succumbed to fever years ago. She grins even harder when she sees the small board tucked under his arm, practically begging him to play a quick game of chess before they watch the other reapings. She doesn’t want to ruin her mood; it’s been days since she’s seen Caturanga, and chess calms her, makes her relax.

Eventually, he agrees, eyeing her cautiously as they settle into the routine they’ve maintained for years. Had she not been chosen, she would’ve let herself into his house and played against herself, as he would have been on the train with someone else. When her parents died, shortly after her brother, he’d urged her to move in with him, into the house he owns in the Victor’s Village. She feels weak; relying on others, so she’d refused and now lives on her own in the poorer part of District 2.

She chews on the nail of her index finger, contemplating her next move. He looks up at her. “How have you been lately?” His tone is curious, non-intrusive, and he tries to act uninterested.

“Better,” she admits. “Though I am sure the arena will change that.”

“Helena.” She doesn’t look at him, instead resting her chin on her hand and staring at the board. She knows he’s laying a trap, but she really can’t do anything to play out of it. Caturanga sighs as she blatantly ignores him. “Promise me something.”

She moves her knight, takes a minute to survey the board, before looking up at him. “It depends on what it is.”

He lets out a breath, full of tension and maybe a hint of sadness. “Don’t hurt yourself in there.” He doesn’t have to say that there will be thousands watching, not only from the district, but the whole of Panem, because he’s sure that it’s on her mind.

“I don’t plan on hurting myself,” she says simply, and it takes him a moment to understand what she means.

He tries another route. “You could win this, you know.” He’s still hoping that there might be a way to get through to her.

“What’s the point?” she growls. She places her hands on her thighs, before curling her fingers into tight fists. She lets her fingernails dig into her palms, tightening her jaw at the sting of pain. “Please,” she tells him, trying her hardest to keep her voice steady, “let’s not talk about this.”

He nods, before grinning down at the board. In a matter of turns, her has her king in checkmate and in mock resignation, she tips the plastic king over.

“Really,” she drawls, forcing an annoyed smile, “You couldn’t even let me win? I am heading to my death.”

“You would have known,” he points out.

“Yes,” she sighs, slowly gathering up the pieces. “I would have.” She stays silent, handing over a few pawns before Caturanga puts everything back into the box. At some point, she knows, they’ll have to talk about the arena and what she’s in for. She knows to expect ruthlessness, something, she found, that she’s hoping for. She almost longs for the day a blade will cut into her skin. He’s never told her about his time there – though she was dreadfully curious – and she doubts he’ll start now. Caturanga stills in his movements, his dark eyes, much like her own, drifting to her face. His expression is unreadable, but his shoulders are tense in a way that transfers to her.

“Shall we watch the reapings?”

 

.,.

 

Myka’s sure that there’ll be an imprint of her for a long while after she leaves this couch. She’s been sitting for what seems like hours, watching the crowd disperse outside. The train, sitting next to the mayor’s building, had arrived in the early morning; she’d seen it during the reaping on the edge of the square, quiet and looming. Now it’s almost ghastly, plumes of smoke coming from the engine, almost white in the midday sun. She’s almost mesmerized, until the door behind her creaks open and she turns to see a peacekeeper escorting her father inside. Her father, whose eyes are red rimmed, whose still nursing his hangover and not crying over his daughter’s fate, stands on the edge of the room like a skittish animal, his eyes downcast. His shoulders hang even lower as he avoids her gaze and clears his throat.

When he finally looks up at her, dark eyes full of sadness, he chokes out her name. Whatever words he'd planned to say die in his throat, and he just gestures vaguely to the space between them. She’s across the room in three strides, wrapping her arms around him tightly and breathing in the faint smell of cologne.

“You’re my girl,” he whispers into her hair.

“I know.”

Her mother is next. She’s a sobbing mess when she sees her daughter, collapsing into Myka’s arms. Myka hugs her back, rubbing circles on her back reassuringly.

She cries her daughters’s name into her neck. “My sweet, sweet Myka.”

“It’s going to be okay,” Myka breathes, but some part of her feels the air of finality in her words. “I promise.” They stand in each other’s arms, and soon, too soon, the peacekeeper is there to take her mother away. Myka wipes at her eyes quickly as they bring in Tracy, who smiles at her sadly.

“Keep it," she urges, forcing their mother’s necklace into Myka’s hands. Myka doesn’t argue, just clings tightly to her sister. Their time together goes too fast, and Tracy presses a kiss to Myka’s temple before she’s dragged out, leaving Myka alone in the small visiting room with a silver chain dangling from her fingers.

The peacekeeper comes in alone this time - he’s one she recognizes that patrols her school on occasion - and grabs her arm gently to lead her out of the room. She’s joined by the other tribute as they go to the train, a boy named Pete Lattimer. He stares ahead stubbornly, seemingly refusing to look at her. At the door of the train waiting for them is the only living victor from their district, Artie Nielsen. Myka hadn’t been alive during his games, but she knows from the district videos that he'd managed to win without killing anyone.

He looks at them somewhat disapprovingly before turning and stepping onto the train, beckoning vaguely for them to follow. Pete finally looks at her, his eyes clear and sparkling, as he gestures for her to go first.

The train itself isn’t very significant. Myka’s accustomed to seeing trains all of the time, stopping most often at the power plants. What’s significant are the decorative plates piled high with food, leaving little table room. Artie’s sitting at the table, not looking at them, but at the food.

“Look,” he starts, “I’m not going to beat around the bush here. You might win, but that’s not likely unless you’re a trained killer.” He looks up at them. “I’m assuming that you’re not. So, my job is to give you my advice, help you as much as I can, and do everything in my power to make the Capitol happy. I don’t want to see you killed,” he continues, emphasizing the last part. “You’re just kids. The truth is, one or both of you will die.” He pauses, frowning at the stone faced teenagers in front of him.

“You can be mentored separately or together, your choice. I don’t care, but as you can see, I’m the only one here to help you.”

“Together is fine,” Pete answers automatically. A small part of Myka wants to object, but she knows that would mean less knowledge. They can learn twice as much if they're mentored at the same time.

Artie nods, more to himself than them. “Okay. We’ll start by watching the reapings, so you can get an idea of your competition.”

 

.,.

 

Helena watches impassively as a confident blonde girl practically skips to the stage. Amanda Martin grins to the crowd as the ridiculous looking escort gushes over her pretty dress. He reaches into the boy’s bowl dramatically, taking his time to rifle through the names. He finally calls out the name, Walter Sykes, and a tall, blond boy immediately starts to stride through the crowd. He takes the steps to the stage by two, straightening his tie with a white smile. He stands confidently, ignoring the girl beside him, and waves to the crowd.

“His brother came in second last year,” Caturanga murmurs. “Killed by MacPherson.” Helena reasons that MacPherson will want to get him out of the way more than anyone else, and she allows herself a small smile.

 

.,.

 

Myka and Pete sit on either side of Artie, purposefully on opposite ends of the couch within the small theater compartment on the train. Myka wishes that they’d let her bring her glasses, she could barely see the screen. She squints, her head tilted up as the girl tribute’s name is called. She has raven hair, framing her face and hiding her expression. When she hears her name, her eyes go from far away to focused. She seems suspended in contemplation, until she runs a hand through her hair. When she finally starts to the stage, she smiles. She hears Pete scoff to her right.

“She looks crazy,” he admits – Myka swears he sounds a little uneasy – and she’s inclined to hum her agreement. The boy from District 2 is cocky, waving at the crowd, shaking hands, and looking at his counterpart curiously. Artie tells them that his brother won last year, that he’ll want to live up to the legacy. Myka’s attention falls to him instead of the girl and she makes sure to commit him to memory.

 

.,.

 

Out of the corner of her eyes, Helena sees Caturanga start to shake his head slowly, just as a small, fourteen year old girl, Claudia Donovan, is called in District 3. Her bright crop of red hair moves through the masses slowly, and when she emerges in the front, Helena can see immediately that she must be homeless. That, or very poor. Her clothes and hair are filthy; no parents break down into tears when she reaches the stage. She stands on the stand, small and unassuming, gazing into the crowd, surveying the faces around her, until her eyes lock onto a fixed position. Her stance becomes stronger, her shoulders straighter, and she presses her lips into a tight line in an attempt to stay composed.

Helena tries not to think about all the ways she can kill her.

When the male tribute is called, Helena dismisses the name, thinking it’s just common. The moment the camera flips to Joshua Donovan’s face - full of surprise, then loathing, then sadness – she knows they’re related. Helena glances to her mentor and lets out a breath that she’d been holding as he nods just slightly, confirming the thoughts echoing in her mind.

A hate burns through her so suddenly, like a swallowing fire, hot in her throat and deep in her gut. The fire is fueled by the Capitol and what she’s lost.

She makes the decision to never lose again.

 

.,.

 

Steve Jinks is unusually uncharismatic for District 4, not at all loud and abrasive as Myka believes the fishing district to be. His hair is almost nonexistent – closely shaved to the scalp – and Myka observes that he looks strong. He looks bored almost, as if this is a daily occurrence. He lets himself be led by the enthusiastic escort, who has a vice grip on his hand, to the center of the stage.

Abigail Cho, when asked if she wants to compete, shakes her head no, bursts into tears and runs off the stage. Immediately after, hundreds of girls start yelling, their hands high in the air. Sally Stukowski is thirteen and beats out every one of the volunteers during the mayor’s chosen competition of climbing. She practically bounces to the stage, her cheeks flushed red from the exertion, and smiling widely. The escort makes them shake hands, him – at fifteen - about a foot taller than her, while she gazes up at him in challenge.

 

.,.

 

When Myka Bering’s name is called, the camera zooms to her face. It’s evident that she isn’t paying attention, that she didn’t hear her name the first time, that it takes a second time for the realization to dawn on her features. The escort, a bubbly looking woman, taps the microphone and repeats the name, with a different – and wrong – pronunciation. Then, the girl looks up, seemingly into the camera, and Helena finds herself staring straight into eyes filled with terror. The camera angle moves, and Helena watches who she assumes is the girl’s mother burst into tears and cry into another girl’s shoulder. The image flips back to the tribute, who walks gracefully to the stage, her eyes downcast and her arms stiff at her sides.

Her district partner, Pete Lattimer, looks like he could crush Helena with one hand. His build is large and her attention moves to him and she almost forgets the girl.

The rest of the tributes are insignificant, not raising any alarms in Helena’s mind. She makes a mental note of Marcus Diamond, from District 11, and Adwin Kosan, from District 7. They, she decides, will be the ones to look out for. They’re both huge and threatening, one an ex-peacekeeper’s son, and the other who looks as if he’s been lifting wood since he was old enough. On the replay of District 10’s reaping, it was framed around the tributes being lovers, by the names of Jack Secord and Rebecca St. Clair.

Helena wants to feel sadness, but instead she’s jealous. They’ll get the sympathy vote and if they make it past the bloodbath at the Cornucopia, they’ll most likely have more sponsors. Helena reasons that means fewer sponsors for herself.

She doesn’t want to win, but she doesn’t want to lose, either.

After they finish watching, Helena turns to Caturanga. “How can we set it up to where I never have to see James’ face until the arena?”

He nods, before checking his watch. “I’ll talk to Xavier about getting meal times scheduled when we get to the Capitol, but until then, I’m afraid you’ll have to avoid him on your own.”

“Thank you.” She runs a hand through her hair – mentally correcting herself about halfway through, she _really_ needs to stop doing that – and fidgets with her dress, suddenly feeling uncomfortable. “Where can I change?” She feels a pang in her chest, the excitement from the reaping wearing off, and she needs to be alone. He nods and leads her to her compartment. The second the door is closed, she strips out of her dress. She leans against the door to her room, her skin cool on the surface, and shuts her eyes as stray tears fall down her cheeks. She slumps to the ground, her knees against her chest, pressing the bases of her palms in her eyes sockets, before curling into a ball. She bites her lip as hard as she can, eventually tasting the iron of blood in her mouth.

 

.,.

 

Artie growls at them to stay put, before abandoning them in the theater. Myka pulls at the bottom of her dress, while Pete shifts in his seat. She can feel her cheeks burning as his gaze falls on her. She’s already made up her mind about him. It’s no use to make friends, everyone would be dead anyway. Finally, turning toward him - and ignoring how quickly he looks away – she gives him her full attention.

“What?” she snaps.

He doesn’t answer right away, just stares at the large screen in front of them. “Thank you,” he says after a while.

That takes her by surprise. “For what?”

“You stood up for me against those guys who were beating me up when we were younger and they never bothered me again.” His gaze falls to his hands as he pinches the skin between his thumb and index finger. “So, thank you.”

“Are you saying this because we’re going to die?”

“No?” he looks at her quizzically, as if she shouldn’t have a reason to doubt his sincerity. “I’ve always just wanted to say that to you.”

“Oh,” Myka feels a pang of guilt in her stomach. “I’m sorry – I just, I’m not in the best mood.”

Pete laughs, hollow and bitter. “Yeah. Me either.”

 


	2. a melody

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Don’t make any friends. Allies work, but friends are distracting in the arena. Make sure you know not to trust anyone. Friends get you killed.
> 
> "Lastly, don’t attract attention. The last thing you want is some cocky, highly trained idiot stalking you in the arena. Trust me, it’s not fun."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> trigger warnings: mentions of suicide and descriptions of violence

Myka’s skin feels raw. They had scrubbed and stripped her skin down to nothing, and she feels exposed. She lets her stylists have their way with her, doing what they want as they pass her along roughly person to person. She grits her teeth as they pull at her hair, measure her body, and attempt to erase every imperfection upon her skin. She nods mutely when they tell her they’re dyeing her hair, flinching only slightly when the cool water runs through her hair and on her scalp. She wants to ask if she can brush out the tangles, as they pull too hard and tug too much. She watches as her annoying mats of hair are transformed into a waterfall of curls. There’s a different person staring back at her, with darker hair, not quite black, clearer skin, absent are the few dark spots that were on her cheeks and the shadows under her eyes.

She knows that it could be worse. She could have gotten the complete Capitol treatment, with pink hair and sparkling lipstick.

They fit her into a yellow dress, tight on her abdomen and flowing on her legs. Shimmering like a field of flowers when she moves, reminding her of electricity. She can’t stop staring at the mirror and it’s when they tug on her arm that she finally pulls her eyes away. She’s led off to a different room sooner than she wants, and a feeling of unease settles over her.

 

.,.

 

The Capitol is fake, feeling to her almost artificial with the unrealistic hair and too bright colors. The smiles are forced, including her own, the handshakes stiff, and Caturanga tells her that somehow she’s supposed to look approachable; she’s supposed to look /happy/. Right now, she knows that the Reapings are being broadcasted again, maybe some of the festivals. Soon, Helena is off the train and carted off to meet her stylists, told not to say another word. She answers when asked, lets them scrape her skin raw, and brush out her hair. She’s told by one of the stylists, a plucky man with an obviously fake accent, that they’re going to do a silver theme. She’s supposed to look like a knife, like the millions her district makes.

She feels odd in the dress, not used to wearing anything remotely this fancy, even back home. She hasn’t worn heels in years; she can feel her calves aching after a half hour. She wishes she could skip over it all, the ceremonies and interviews, and go straight to the games. Once she’s dressed, they take her to what seems like a waiting room. James is there waiting for her, smiling crookedly when he sees her. The walls are a muted blue, an expensive television screen showing that the all access Hunger Games coverage has moved on to covering the President arriving in the huge stadium. James leans close to her ear, she breathes in the scent of his cologne, and he murmurs a greeting.

“Helena,” he hums, the air of his breath uncomfortable on her neck.

“James.”

“You know,” he says casually, voice dripping with charm, “We’ll be better off if we teamed up.”

She rolls her eyes, crossing her arms and deliberately turns away from him.

“It’ll be great,” he husks into her ear. “/We/ will be great. I’ve seen you training back home. You’re amazing, Helena. I need Sykes out of my way, and you can help me.”

“You want to win,” she points out, taking the time to look him over, seeing his dark blue suit, accented in places with silver and stubble on cheeks. “Where does that leave me?”

“Dead,” he says simply. “Like we both know you want to be.”

She wants to argue, but the words die on her tongue. She knows he’s right. “Fine,” she hisses. “But you’ll do as I say and /you/ will not be the one to kill me.”

He nods and gives her his trademark grin, not objecting when she grabs his hand and intertwines their fingers. “As you wish.”

 

.,.

 

She’s led to a room, the walls the ugliest color of yellow that she’s ever seen. Pete’s sitting in a recliner, his head down and hands in his hair, elbows resting on his knees. His hair glossed and spiked up, glittering with faux electricity. His suit matches the heels they’ve given her – she’s thankful the ceremony doesn’t require her to walk around, she’s not sure that she would be able to – a stark black that contrasts with the yellow of her dress. To Myka’s right the horses of their carriage shift restlessly, as Pete looks up at her.

He smiles at her, a tired, but warm smile. “Hey.”

“Hey.” She feels awkward. Feels like the dress is too tight in places it shouldn’t be, feels like she’ll pass out if she has to go out in front of millions, and most of all, she feels the fear well up into a tight ball in the pit of her stomach. Pete sighs, wary and defeated, when the man Myka assumes is a guard tells him to step onto the carriage. He holds a hand out for her and she takes it, allowing herself to be pulled up because she’s not sure she can trust her feet in these heels. The two of them watch the screen, as the President finishes his speech with a ‘Happy Hunger Games!’. The District 1 carriage’s horses move purposefully around the stadium, shortly followed by District 2. Large grey horses pull the two tributes, who are smiling at the camera and the screaming Capitol citizens.

Myka’s mesmerized. She watches MacPherson lean toward Helena, whisper something into her dark curtain of hair, making her laugh. Myka wishes she could hear the sound. The announcer presents their names proudly, and the roar of the citizens grows even louder. MacPherson’s suit is grey, with silver accents that catch the light and glint off in every direction, almost like stars. Myka isn’t looking at him. Helena’s dress glitters silver, clinging to her hips and thighs, but hanging loosely off of her shoulders. Pete whistles under his breath, and Myka fights the urge to elbow him. Helena’s hair is so black that it shines, echoing the bright colors around them, the stage lights throwing down reds and blues and greens. She looks almost dangerous, like a weapon waiting to cut into skin.

Myka can’t tear her eyes away.

Their carriage starts moving into the giant stadium, her cheeks flushing as her and Pete become the center of attention. Myka hadn’t even heard them announce districts 3 and 4. She looks over at Pete, who has the hint of a smile on his lips, before chewing on her bottom lip. The crowd roars around them and Myka feels a shiver run through her.

Myka wants to hate this, wants to despise everything about this, but she can’t help but feel the excitement in her chest, warming her to the tips of her fingers.

The carriage stops in line, and the next tributes are announced. Her eyes move involuntarily to where Helena’s standing, no longer smiling. Her eyes are closed, her shoulders tense, and her fingers stiff in James’ hand. Myka can somehow tell that she’s trying to tune out all of it out, trying to be somewhere else. Myka thinks of her books, of fictional worlds, but the world around her is so distracting.

Myka forces her eyes away, putting the other girl out of her mind. Instead, she looks at the crowd, tilting her head and forcing her shoulders back. Pete follows her lead, and for the first time since her name was called, Myka isn’t afraid. She puts on a brave face, an unfamiliar feeling flowing through her, and she tells herself that no matter what, she’ll be strong. She has to be.

 

.,.

 

Myka is still humming with adrenaline when the three of them are escorted to the elevator. Myka’s only been in an elevator once before, but it’s an odd sensation, a sort of flip in her stomach. Artie is standing between her and Pete, starting stubbornly at the doors, while of out of the corner of her eyes, Myka can see Pete’s gaze wandering around the compartment. She wonders if they did anything wrong at the ceremony.

Artie shifts his feet, before clearing his throat. “Your rooms are down the hall from each other. Don’t kill one another, that won’t give you an advantage in the games, you’ll just be made a target. You both agreed to be to be trained together, so I’ll let you sleep tonight, but I’ll start with you tomorrow before breakfast. After that, you’re off to training.”

He turns around and glares at the two of them, blocking the doorway just as the bell dings. “You may ask me anything you like, and I may answer. But only after I get some sleep.”

The doors open behind him and he disappears before either of them can speak. Poking their heads out, they find a large grand room to their left and several labeled doors to their right. Pete’s is first, and Myka can just make out hers a way down. She beelines straight to her room to find a carefully made bed and a closet full of clothes she’ll never wear. She strips out of the more casual clothing she’d been given to wear during the feast, different from her dress but still very yellow. She’s not cold standing in the middle of the room naked, but a shiver passes through her anyway as she remembers the cameras in the arena. She hurries to the bed and slides under the sheets.

The sheets feel soft, a lot smoother than the ones back home. She wishes they smelled the same, that they had the same hint of the cleaning soap her mother uses. She wishes she were in her room, not in some Capitol replica. She wishes she could hear her sister’s door slam and her father stumbling in downstairs.

She wishes until she falls asleep.

 

.,.

 

Helena and Caturanga are sprawled out on the bed, gazing at the ceiling, while the fan above their heads moves at a high speed blur. They can hear James and Xavier in the great room, talking loudly about arena strategies. Caturanga hums under his breath, more of a rhythmic breathing than a hum, switching once and a while from a variety of choices unknown to Helena.

“Tell me about her,” Caturanga says after a while, the absence of the humming creating an uncomfortable silence.

“I don’t remember much,” she whispers.

“Tell me anything,” he urges. “How you felt, what she looked like.”

On reflex, Helena’s hand drifts to the locket around her neck, the old chain’s luster worn away after years of being thumbed. “Pregnancy was dreadful,” she breathes. “You remember, I stayed with you after Charles succumbed. I had dropped out of school.”

“I remember.”

“She was born about a week after the Reaping… I believe that you were here, training… who was it? Crowley?”

“Yes.”

“She was the most beautiful baby girl I’ve ever seen,” she says, her voice soft and heartbroken. She stops, eyes closed, and a tear leaks out and streaks down the side of her face. Caturanga grabs her hand, squeezing it tightly for reassurance. When Helena speaks again, her voice is thick with sadness. “… My Christina.”

“I regret I never met her,” he murmurs, still clutching her hand. “But Helena… You need to remember her in the arena. Tell yourself that she’s back home waiting for you. She’s not dead, Helena.”

She stares at the ceiling, her eyes and features apathetic as her daughter’s face fills her mind.

She sighs. “How could I forget?”

 

.,.

 

Myka doesn’t even bother with the controls of the closet, grabbing the simplest thing she sees. She makes her way to the great room, following the sound of utensils scraping on plates. At a long table near the window, Artie and Pete sit at one end, with plates of food stretched out between them.  
Artie spots her first, as she hesitates at the far end of the room. “Good, you’re up. We have some guidelines to get down before training, so sit down. Eat.”

She barely touches her food one she’s served herself. She listens and tries to remember as much as she can as Artie rambles on, wishing that Pete wasn’t chewing as loud as he is.

“Okay,” Artie sighs. “At training, the richer districts will want to show off. They’ll attempt to intimidate the tributes that have almost no chance.” He takes a moment to point at each of them, before continuing. “Now, if either of you have any special talents, speak now. I want to see what we have to work with.”

They’re silent - Pete not so much, still chewing his food loudly - and Myka’s mind blanks. Pete shrugs eventually. “I can wrestle.”

“Great,” Artie mutters. “Make sure you lift as much as you can, get used to lifting a lot. If you get sore, we can give you something for that. And you?” He looks at Myka quizzically.

She shakes her head.

“I guessed at much,” Artie says, nodding knowingly. “Well, learn everything you don’t know. Get used to having a weapon in your hands, spar with the trainers, anything. Your goal is to get at least a five when you’re scored. Remember, the gamekeepers will be watching you. They always are.”

They both nod, a fire burning low in Myka’s stomach, and she shifts uncomfortably.

“For lunch, sit together. Don’t make any friends. Allies work, but friends are distracting in the arena. Friends get you killed. Make sure you know not to trust anyone.”

He stops, staring at them with an unfamiliar look in his eyes. “Lastly, don’t attract attention. The last thing you want is some cocky, highly trained idiots stalking you in the arena. Trust me, it’s not fun.” He looks at the clock. “Time to go.”

 

.,.

 

The training room is huge, with cavernous ceilings and a windowed balcony where there are tens of chairs that Myka guesses are for the gamekeepers. They’re not the first to arrive, but they’re not the last. She can see the small redhead from three practically bouncing on her heels next to her brother, and somehow she manages to look even smaller than she did at the ceremony. Myka and Pete stand off to the side by themselves, silently assessing the room as more tributes arrive.

Myka notices a tall, strongly built woman striding toward them, her steps long and confident. She has an identical outfit as the tributes, excepting the large capital C on her left breast, instead of a district number. She stands in the middle of the room, next to a series of large nets hanging from the ceiling. Her presence is enough for people to start noticing her, and soon she has everyone’s attention.

“I am Atala,” she booms, her voice echoing throughout the room. “I’ll be your head trainer for the next three days. You will have other trainers that I’m sure you will come to know, but I am who you come to if you have questions. The training center is open from 10AM to 5PM, and you are welcome to come and go whenever you want, though I would recommend taking of advantage of the time that you have been given.

“Lunch is at 1PM. You have one hour after that to eat or not eat, I don’t care. The Lunch Hall,” she points to her left to a series of double doors, “is open until 2PM. After that, it’s up to you and your district partner to decide when you want to eat dinner, and plan accordingly.

“There are exactly thirty-three stations, each with a specialized trainer to help you when needed. Tributes, I advise you to learn new skills and prepare yourself for what’s to come.”

She moves on to describe each station, providing a demonstration, and by the time she finishes, it’s time for lunch. The Hall itself is just two long tables and a buffet of food on the far side of the room. Myka’s lost track of Pete in the line, certain that he’d rushed off to try and get to the front of the line. She’s not paying much attention and she ends up running into someone.

“I’m – I’m sorry…”

“Pardon me,” a smooth voice assures her, and Myka looks up into blue eyes, glittering with interest. Walter Sykes - she remembers him from the reapings - is somehow more intimidating up close. He’s about her height, maybe slightly taller than Pete, and steps into her personal space like he belongs there. “You’re the girl from five, right?”

She nods. “And you’re from one.”

“Guilty,” he responds, flashing a white-toothed smile, and then he turns array from her when a girl calls his name. “See you later, Myka.” He brushes past her, finding at spot at the head of the left table, next to Steve, Sally, and Marcus. Myka turns around and scans the room for Pete, trying not to think about Walter and his presence that makes her skin crawl. Her eyes wander over to Helena and MacPherson, sitting with a smaller boy Myka doesn’t immediately recognize. James loops an arm around Helena’s shoulders and laughs heartily and Myka can glimpse a shade of irritation on Helena’s face before she laughs, masking her emotion well.

She spots Pete sitting with a small group, and mentally kicks herself as she heads over to the table. Pete grins at her with a mouthful of food, and points at the girl Myka thinks is from 11. “This is Leena.” His pointed finger moves to the redhead and her brother. “And this is Claudia and Joshua.”

“I’m Myka,” she tells them, and then continues to eat her food. She eats slowly and very little, still not used to the richness of the food.

Claudia is buzzing, bouncing in her seat. “So who do you think will win?” Claudia asks and Joshua sends her a glare. “What?” she squeaks. “Obviously, I have no chance, so it seems logical to speculate upon who’ll win instead.”

Pete glances toward Helena and MacPherson, then to Sykes. “Hopefully, they’ll kill each other before they even think about us,” he says ruefully.

“Yeah, they’re totally pitted against each other,” Claudia agrees.

“It’s a legacy,” Leena reminds them. “James wants to live up to the name.”

“All the more reason to stay out of his way,” Pete says.

“So Malcolm Sykes came in second, right? Last year?” He doesn’t tear his eyes away from their opponents, not-so-slyly sizing them up. In answer, Leena nods solemnly.

Myka feels like Pete is lighter somehow, the tension in his voice and posture having disappeared. “The girl from 2 is moony for MacPherson,” Pete says. “She’ll probably help him for the whole thing until he kills her.”

“Probably,” Myka agrees, speaking for the first time and hoping that the disappointment isn’t obvious in her tone. She doesn’t notice Leena watching her carefully, instead focusing on the food in front of her.

“But wow,” Claudia breathes, “This is the first time the Careers are against each other in /years/.” A shadow falls across her brother’s face and she goes silent. She looks at the others apologetically.

Myka shrugs. “MacPherson seems smart, he’ll want Sykes out of the way quickly. Sykes is too angry to last long anyway, so he’ll be going for MacPherson. They’re both bound to lose a few in that fight, if not each other.” She remembers the feeling she’d gotten when Sykes came too close. “Sykes seems like the type to kill anyone who gets in his way. He’s compulsive. That guy from four, Steve, he seems smart enough to know a bad thing before it goes anywhere close to a fight. He’ll get away, so he could win.” She turns to Leena. “What about Marcus?”

The girl gazes at her curiously. “He fights in school. His father used to be a peacekeeper, before they fired him. Sometimes he comes to school with bruises.”

Myka nods. “Yeah. If he’s got any wit at all, he can win. That Kosan guy is big, if he can stay out of the way while the others kill each other, he could make it.”

“And you?” Pete asks quietly. “How would you win?”

Myka looks at him. “I could kill if I had to, but I’m not under any illusions that I could win this.”

 

.,.

 

The rest of the day goes slow. Myka doesn’t mean to watch Helena, but that’s what she does. She’s been glued to MacPherson’s side for the better part of the day, looking disinterested in whatever he’s doing, and excelling at every station. And Myka’s worried. Because Helena is getting more dangerous by the second, and every once and while, her eyes flicker up and meet Myka’s, just for a second, like she knows she’s being watched. It only takes a second, and then Helena looks away. Myka tries to make herself focus on untying this /stupid/ knot, instead of making herself a target to who may very well be the most lethal person in the room.

Pete’s strength is obvious. He already works in the factories, probably moving generators and batteries and other heavy things that the older people can’t lift. /Worked/, Myka corrects herself, he doesn’t any longer. Myka knows that she’s strong, too, but she knows that she won’t last long in a fist fight if it came to that. She remembers when she was younger, when her sober father used to admonish her when she got into his things, like his books and his epée.

She notices Pete move on to the plants section just as her knot comes undone, and she can’t help the smile that blossoms, she attempts pushing down the feeling of pride that blooms in her chest, and shakes her head fiercely when the trainer asks her if she wants to go again, before hurrying after Pete.

On the second day, she finds herself more independent. Branching off from Pete, she heads over to the snares station, where she finds Leena. The other girl smiles at her warmly.

“Hello, Myka,” she muses, her voice all lilting vowels and strong consonants.

“Hey,” she replies, turning to watch the trainer as he shows them how to set up a trap that will string somebody up by their ankle. She’s about to move on when Lena grabs her arm

“Myka, there’s something I feel the need to tell you,” Leena says quietly. “I can read auras…”

Myka’s sort of confused, and sure that it shows on her features. “What does that mean?”

“Sort of a mixture between seeing someone’s vague future and being able to tell what someone’s feeling,” Leena murmurs. “But, I had to tell you that… you have the potential to win this thing.”

“My… aura… is telling you that?”

Leena nods, letting go of Myka’s arm, giving her last one smile before walking away. From a few stations over, Pete catches her eye and gestures toward the lunch hall.

“District 2 makes me nervous,” she admits, once they’re both sitting down. “He’s too cocky and she’s too quiet.”

“You’ve been /staring/,” he whispers, and she wonders if it was that obvious. “I’m not the only one that noticed.” He glances behind him, and Myka follows his gaze to Sykes. “He was talking about you,” Pete continues, “how you’ve got the hots for MacPherson.”

/It isn’t him/, Myka wants to point out, but Claudia sits down across from them and prevents either of them from continuing the conversation, as she drops her tray onto the table loudly.

“Hey guys,” Claudia greets. “How’s training going?”

Joshua sits beside her. “You really shouldn’t ask that.”

“You’re right,” she agrees, before chewing her food quietly. They eat in silence, Myka trying to ignore that nagging feeling in the back of her mind.

 

.,.

 

After lunch, Myka goes to the swords station, beelining for the instrument that looks so much like her father’s. The epée is heavier in her hand, she’s sure that the metal it’s been made from is denser. She tries out a few moves with the trainer, blocking the hits and jabs easier and easier as she grows more comfortable. And when the tip of her weapon stops just under the trainer’s throat, he laughs. He goes to the weapons stand and pulls out a small sword along with a larger one.

He hands her the smaller one, hilt first. “Think you can handle not killing me?”

She thinks he’s absurd for even remotely trusting her. But for a moment, she’s almost giddy with excitement, and it only takes a quick glance around her, reminding her where she is, to sober her. She nods to him, back up a few steps, moving her sword arm around to get a feel. When he goes to strike, she defends easily, grinning at the clang of metal on metal. She feels the end of her ponytail whip her in the face as she strikes, her arms shaking at the impact.

And she laughs.

 

.,.

 

Helena’s in the middle of retrieving her knives from the practice dummy when she hears them. She watches idly as the girl reflects the blows effortlessly and soon she’s standing, transfixed, watching as the girl whirls around for a block. She moves with the sword as if she’s dancing, smooth and effortless. A few stray curls fell into the girl’s face, and she reached up to tuck them behind her ear as she recovers, pausing to wipe her forehead with the back of her hand.

They start the dance again, the girl moving around the trainer quickly, just out of his range. Helena can tell that he’s tiring, and she knows that Myka will have him in a moment.

Less than a moment, it seems, because they freeze. The trainer’s sword clatters to the ground and the tip of the girl’s rests under his chin. The trainer says something, and the girl flushes under what Helena assumes is praise. She puts her sword down and shakes hands with him, before moving on.

Helena grins, and makes a mental note to fight this girl before she dies. She throws the knives again, all three hitting the dummy’s neck.

 

.,.

 

Anger is rolling off of Pete in waves as they ride the elevator. The emotion crowds her, until she finally snaps. “What is it?”

He doesn’t answer, just stares forward at the doors.

“Pete – “

“Artie warned us!” he growls. “I saw you today, and so did /everybody else/. You made yourself a target! The girl from 2 couldn’t tear her eyes away, and then freaking threw knives!”

Myka hadn’t noticed anyone watching. She doesn’t have talent, she just… wanted to try a few things out. “It was risky,” she admits. She looks at him, his eye slightly lower than her own. “What do you care if I’m a target?”

He shrugs. “It doesn’t matter now, does it?”

The elevator doors open and before he has a chance to leave, she grabs his arm. “Why?”

He shakes his head. “I was going to ask you if you wanted to team up, but if Lady Cuckoo is going after you, I’m gonna be on the opposite side of the arena.”

Myka almost rolls her eyes. She’s thankful that he doesn’t see, as he’s still refusing to look at her. She hits him in the shoulder, lighter than usual. “What, are you scared of me now?” she teased.

He answers automatically. “No.”

“You should be,” she jokes. “The girl from 2 is probably just worried because I’m such a badass. She’ll just run to MacPherson and tell him that I’m okay with a sword.” She hopes that her words reassure him.

“Okay?” he blanches. “Dude, you’re more than okay. You’re amazing,” he tells her, not so mad anymore. She wishes that she had control of her cardiovascular system, as she feels the familiar rush of blood to her cheeks.

“Thank you,” she says and as he turns to go, she calls out again. “And Pete?”

“Yeah?”

“We can still team up if you want.”

He nods, before going to his room. Myka stands alone in the elevator, before she notices a 13th floor. She knows that there used to be a 13th district, but she’d never learnt much about it in school. She presses it out of curiosity, and partly because she doesn’t want to go to sleep.

To her surprise, the door opens not to another floor, but to the roof. The lights of the Capitol against the night sky are stunning, illuminating the darkness, and for a moment, it reminds her of the not quite darkness of home. She goes to the edge of the building, and rests her elbows on the barrier, leaning over and looking down.

She wonders if it’s possible to jump, not that she wants to, but she wonders all the same.

“There’s a barrier,” a voice says from behind her and she whirls around to find Helena Wells gazing at her, “to prevent you from killing yourself.”

The fast pacing of Myka’s heart doesn’t slow down as Helena takes a step toward her.

She smiles. “I tried, you know. I threw something over and it came right back up. Brilliant really, if you think about it.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Myka asks, standing as still as she can while Helena passes her and walks to the edge to gaze out at the skyline of the Capitol.

If she notices Myka take a shuddering step back, she doesn’t say anything. “Does it matter?” Helena questions softly. “James will take care of me at some point, probably while I’m asleep.” She looks at Myka. “Why were you watching me? Or were you watching him?”

“You’re dangerous,” Myka whispers. “I was assessing the competition.”

“I am not your competition, Myka.”

Myka changes the subject; she doesn’t like the uncomfortable feeling washing over her. “Is your thing with James just a ploy to get sponsors?”

Helena glances towards her, and then her eyes fall to the floor. “Maybe,” she admits. “He cares about me, but more about winning. He won’t let Sykes win, and he won’t let me last long enough to stab him in the back.”

“What makes you so sure that you can win?”

Helena laughs, a sad, hollow sound. “What, and you think you can?” She turns on Myka and takes a step forward. Myka fights the urge to fall back. She has to be strong, she can’t back down.

She reacts on instinct when Helena’s arm rockets toward her head, and blocks the other girl’s arm. She can hear Helena chuckling before she sends a roundhouse kick to Myka’s head. Myka blocks it painfully, and she can hear Helena’s intake of breath when her palm connects with the shorter girl’s jaw. Helena backs off, staggering back as she wipes her mouth and spits a combination of blood and saliva onto the concrete. When she looks up again, a small smile tugging at her lips, Myka can see the blood in her mouth.

“Thank you,” Helena murmurs quietly, causing Myka’s head to spin. “For making me feel something.”

She goes to the elevator and disappears inside, leaving Myka alone with aching knuckles.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you all for your kind comments and the kudos! this thing is all planned out and i just have to write it, haha. i'm juggling that with school as well, but don't worry, this will get finished.


	3. and the spin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The only sound that Helena can hear is her heart thundering in her ears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> trigger warnings: descriptions of violence
> 
> and ps - i'm sorry if sometimes the notes repeat, or something, because i have no clue how to work this website.

On the morning of the third day, Myka contemplates staying in her room. She wants more time to familiarize herself with the swords, get used to the heaviness in her hands and see if her confidence extends to cutting into flesh. But she also wants to avoid Helena. She knows that she’s on Helena’s radar; she’ll probably be dead after five minutes in the arena. She ultimately decides to skip morning training, instead heading down to the lunch hall a few minutes after one. She’s one of the first to arrive so it’s quiet, especially, she muses, without Pete’s disruption. It allows her time to think on her own about arena strategies and her plan for the scoring tonight. She’ll have to ask the swords trainer if he’ll spar with her.

Myka’s stomach rumbles, still unused to the richness of the food, and she stops eating and just drags her spoon through the thick stew. She feels a sudden wave of nausea and leaves her half-eaten bowl to rush to the bathroom.

When she finally goes to the training room, passing MacPherson on her way out, she immediately spots Helena in the corner, with her arm pulled back and a knife in her hand. Myka buries the urge to go question the other girl, to berate her about breaking the rules, but goes to the swords station instead. The trainer grins, she wonders if he expected her, as he grabs two swords, handing one to her, before leading the way onto the mat.

“Promise you won’t kill me?” he teases. She shrugs in response, before they fall into the same rhythm as yesterday, the occasional clang echoing in the room. She moves lighter and faster, focusing on keeping her steps light and staying out of his range. She disarms him a few times before they take a break. She asks if he’ll spar with her and he agrees, then picks up his sword after wiping his forehead with a small towel, and they start again.

Myka goes to disarm again, but when she feels the unexpected block she comes eye to eye with Helena, the knife in her hand held tightly and keeping Myka’s blade at bay. Myka extracts herself and her sword slowly, refusing to lose eye contact with the other girl. The trainer, caught off guard, rushes to separate them.

“Y-You aren’t allowed to spar with each other!” The two of them turn on him, and he begins to realize that it’s two against one, and he’s unarmed.

Helena’s gaze doesn’t leave Myka’s. “Just having fun,” she says, before finally looking at him, flashing him a charming smile. “May we just have a quick spar?”

Myka looks up and sees a few of the gamekeepers watching idly, the others mainly focused on their lunches, though their heads slowly turn when the trainer’s yell carries up to the balcony.

“No!” the trainer exclaims, looking like he might throw up. “You aren’t allowed. Please, District 2, go back to your own station.”

“I’d rather not,” Helena says simply. She looks back at Myka, her eyebrows raised. “Shall we?”

She doesn’t wait for answer, and doesn’t give Myka the chance to refuse, swinging her arm – and knife – toward Myka’s head. The trainer leaps out of the way with a frightened yelp, as Myka lifts up her sword to defend. She tries to disarm the other girl, but Helena’s too fast, jumping out of range from Myka’s weapon. They separate, finding places on opposite ends of the mat. Helena grins at her devilishly, flipping the knife in her hands and pulling another from her belt.

Myka doesn’t strike first, Myka doesn’t even /move/, just watching and preparing as Helena starts like she’s going to lunge, but instead she throws a knife.

Myka barely registers the shine of the light glinting off the flying metal before she has just enough time to get out of the way, springing to the left and right into Helena. Helena who has another knife that goes straight for her throat. She reflects, with slight difficulty as the sword feels heavier in her hands, then retaliates immediately.

She strikes at the only weak spot she sees, just as Helena tries to stab at her hand, and they freeze. Myka can see the drip of blood on Helena’s neck where her blade presses just slightly into flesh.

“Point Bering,” Helena says softly. Logically, Myka knows they’re both breaking probably /all/ of the rules, and she knows that she shouldn’t be showing Helena how she fights.

Helena dances to her left; Myka makes a move to upset her footing and feels the sting on her cheek too late. Helena is across the mat before Myka even straightens. Myka brings her fingers to her cheek and sees the blood on them. “Point Wells,” Helena calls out.

Myka strikes, fueled by anger and fully intending to cut Helena in half, when she feels a strong hand grab her, halting her momentum. The trainer grabs Helena, who drops her knife, stained with Myka’s blood, with a chuckle. Myka hears Atala’s voice in her ear.

“You’re done for the day. Scoring is at seven.”

Myka makes a show of dropping her sword loudly, stalking out of the training room, while attempting to ignore the stares of the other tributes. One of her stylists is waiting for her outside, and she lets herself be dragged into another room, before he hastily applies a cream to her cheek. He assures her there won’t be any evidence of what happened in a few hours. That it’ll be like nothing ever happened.

Myka goes back to her room, sneakily making it past Artie who somehow finds ways to occupy himself in their apartment. She flops onto the bed, irrational anger filling her up and burning under her skin. She wishes she’d gotten the chance to wipe that proud smirk off of Helena’s face, she wishes Atala had been a moment too late.  
She lets out an irritated puff of air. A small part of her knows she doesn’t want Helena dead. Not yet, anyway.

  
.,.

  
Atala drags Helena out roughly, mad enough to slap the smile off of the tribute’s face. “Listen, the gamekeepers saw your little stunt. If you go after her in the arena, they’ll play it in her favor, because to them, she’s the girl who had her name in that bowl too many times and you’re the Career bully who’s singling her out. Who do you think the Capitol will sympathize with?”

Helena shakes her head. “I’m not going to kill her.”

“Yeah, well. She might kill you.”

.,.

  
Helena and James are shuttled to a room where they have to wait for their scoring. James pesters her about Myka, though she refuses to say anything. Hes aggravated because she won’t share anything about Myka’s style of fighting – Helena categorizes it as using her agility to outrun her opponent, and she files it away for later – and nothing about why Helena had challenged her. Xavier paces near the door and every once and a while he barks at his brother to shut up. He presses his ear to the door, as if he can hear the tributes of District 1 within, and somehow figure out what their talent is.

Caturanga lounges beside her and leans closer so his mouth is next to her ear. “Do you think you’re ready?”

“I’ll get at least a seven,” she replies. She knows she has an advantage, being from District 2, where she’s been training for years, but she thinks of a more effective strategy.

Atala comes into the room, calling out Helena’s name first, and she follows the tall woman into the eerily empty training room. It’s odd, being in it without the other tributes, the stations looking silent and daunting. The gamekeepers are up in the balcony as usual, eye focused on her. She strides confidently to the knives section.

She twirls one of the knives in her hand, getting a feel, before offhandedly throwing it at the dummy. It sticks out of the neck.

A quick survey of the room helps her locate all of the station signs, and she pays specific attention to the one that says ‘nets’. It’s almost too far for her throwing range, but she knows if she just hits the standard target she won’t impress anyone. She glances at the balcony. She can’t tell who the Head Gamekeeper is, doesn’t recognize someone because they’d refused to comment in an interview after the Reaping.

She can hear the scratch of pencils on paper as she throws a few more at the dummy, hitting the lower abdomen. The sign for the camouflage station is farther from her than the dummy, and after she grabs a sharper knife, she hurls it perfectly and it lands right in the middle of the ‘c’. She closes her eyes, takes a breath, and grabs four knives.

She makes the decision to miss.

They’re in her hand only briefly, leaving with sharp whisks of air and missing her targets completely. She looks up at the intent stares of the gamekeepers and bows, before walking out.

.,.

Myka’s lungs burn and her hands ache but she disarms the trainer for the third time as a breath of relief escapes her. She’s sure that the trainer, who is in full protective gear (he’d told her to not hold back), will have bruises to remind him of this. She sees a gamekeeper nodding to himself before she leaves the room.

  
.,.

  
“Ladies and Gentlemen, broadcasting live with the envelope containing the tribute’s scores, I am Caesar Flickerman. Remember, the highest score is 12, while the lowest is 1. Let’s see how our tributes did, shall we?”

He reads the names in order of district, the girl first.

Amanda Martin, 6.  
Walter Sykes, 9.

Helena Wells, 8.  
James MacPherson, 10.

Claudia Donovan, 6.  
Joshua Donovan, 7.

Sally Stukowski, 7.  
Steve Jinks, 8.

Myka Bering, 11.  
Pete Lattimer, 8.

Theodora Stanton, 5.  
Benedict Valda, 6.

Deb Stanley, 4.  
Adwin Kosan, 9.

Ashley McShane, 5.  
Tyler Struhl, 6.

Kelly Hernandez, 5.  
Sam Martino, 7.

Rebecca St. Clair, 3.  
Jack Secord, 6.

Leena Frederic, 5.  
Marcus Diamond, 9.

Emily Lake, 4.  
William Wolcott, 7.

  
.,.

  
Somehow, it feels anticlimactic. She’d expected higher than an eight maybe, but an eleven? She’s surprised, almost not registering the slap on the back she gets from Pete, and Artie looking at her incredulously.

“What didn’t you tell me?” Artie asks, his voice dripping with accusation.

Pete grins and looks at her, as if asking for permission to tell him. “She’s crazy with a sword.”

Artie blanches before storming out, leaving Myka and Pete alone with the muted television. Pete hugs her before she can argue; she finds her face pressed to his neck.

“Uh, Pete?”

He pulls back, his cheeks flushed from embarrassment. “I’m sorry… I mean, If I don’t win, you’re my second choice.

She punches his shoulder, and forces a laugh, hoping to hide her apprehension.

.,.

  
Helena does push-ups in her room until her arms are numb. They day goes by slowly, Helena wishes they were allowed off the floor, so she could pace somewhere with fresh air, somewhere she won’t see MacPherson everywhere she looks. Caturanga is downstairs, preparing for the interviews later, and ensuring that people bet on her. She won’t get very far with a score of eight.

Glancing at the clock, she knows she’s supposed to be heading to see her stylist, to get ready. She listens, her ear pressed to her door, to see if James is in his room or not. When she doesn’t hear anything, so she ventures out and goes to the door on the other side of the great room. Her stylist, Minni, is somewhat reasonable when it comes to make up. Her room is lined with sprays and lotions. It’s empty, so Helena settles in the chair that faces the mirror. Minni comes in soon enough, distracting Helena from her own reflection, as she gushes over Helena’s hair, pulling her fingers through thick tresses. After it’s washed, she blows it straight, trimming a few stray hairs.

Helena’s make up matches her complexion, quaint silver on her eyelids and a light pink dusting on her lips. Caturanga comes in just as Minni announces it’s time to choose an outfit. The three of them agree on a red dress that hugs her like a glove. Her shoes are grey, almost black, and Caturanga smiles at her when she looks at him quizzically.

“You look beautiful,” he murmurs.

“Thank you.” She stands in front of the mirror, as Minni creeps out of the room.

“You know how this works,” he starts. “Just be charming, smile a lot, and try not to scare anyone,” he adds with a grin. It makes her smile at the very least. “They asked me about Christina - how they found out about her I have no idea – but I told them she was off limits.”

“Thank you,” she repeats, though quieter this time. She knows she won’t be able to keep up the façade of confidence if her daughter is mentioned. “And if they ask about the scoring? Or what happened with Myka?”

“Tease him,” Caturanga reasons, eyeing her cautiously. “He doesn’t know what you did in that room, whether the rumors about Myka are true. You have three minutes to make them love you, Helena. And they will.”

  
.,.

  
Pete’s funny. And relatable. Artie says that he’s adorable and he flat out tells Myka that she’s standoffish, that the people won’t like her. Not to mention her little stunt in training, he adds with a glare in her direction. Pete shifts uncomfortably. Finally, Artie tells her that her best bet is to fake everything. Try and be cheerful and all smiles and play the victim with what happened with Helena. Her stylist puts her in a dress and soon her and Pete are in a room not unlike the one before the ceremony.

.,.

  
Helena thinks that James was born for this. His interview is even better than his brother’s last year and that’s saying something. The crowd loves him and part of Helena wonders how she’ll compete. She calms her nerves by reassuring herself that she doesn’t /want/ to compete.

The stage director pushes her forward and she passes James on the way to the chairs. She makes him stop so she can stand on her toes and kiss him languidly, grinning into his lips when the crowd goes absolutely wild. “Well played,” James hisses, before she pushes him past her.

Caesar Flickerman looks cheerfully scandalized. “Well, well, well! Helena Wells! Is there a little love among our tributes from District 2?”

Helena sits in the chair gracefully, folding her hands into her lap. “He’s /ruthless/ and brutal,” she coos, her voice higher than usual. “Honestly,” she says, leaning in conspiratorially. “I can’t get enough of him.”

Caesar turns to the audience. “Is he the only one that’s ruthless, or are you hiding how talented you are?”

She grins, almost criminally. She can do this; she’s good at faking. “I can’t tell you what I did for that eight,” she says. “But I am stronger than I look.”

“I definitely like the sound of that!” He urges the crowd louder. “Don’t you?”

Helena laughs, calculated and breathless.

He turns back to her. “Now tell me, we heard that you had a little skirmish in training. Would you care to elaborate?”

She knits her eyebrows together. “A skirmish?”

Caesar cocks his head to the side. “Well, the rumors must be false! We had heard that you and another tribute were caught sparring.”

“Oh, that!” She laughs. “Someone got in my way, that’s all.”

“Ruthless,” Caesar repeats, “And totally gorgeous!”

“Thank you. My stylist said that simple would be better, so here I am.” She gets up and curtsies when Caesar asks the audience for a round of applause, and she shakes his hand before she goes backstage. Someone pulls her into the green room and MacPherson starts to clap slowly.

“Very convincing.”

“Shut up,” she hisses, settling on the couch with a sigh. She leans forward, elbows on her knees and hands in her hair. “Do you think they bought it?”

“The idiotic impulsive girl who will follow her love to the edges of the arena? Yes, I believe so.” He plucks an apple from the refreshments cart and bites into it, taking his time to chew. “If I didn’t already know that you loathe me, I’d think you were quite infatuated.”

“Lovely,” she sighs, before looking up at the screen.

.,.

  
Myka feels like she might throw up. She can barely walk in the heels, so she takes the route to the chairs slowly. Her hair, curls and braids expertly weaved together, falls in waves around her face. Caesar compliments her dress, a deep royal blue with one strap on her left shoulder. She flushes under Caesar’s praise and when he grins at her and squeezes her hand affectionately, she knows she has them convinced.

“So Myka, you have a sister back home, correct?”

“Yes. She’s nineteen.”

“Are you close?”

“Yes,” she lies, gesturing to her necklace. “She gave me this actually, to use as my token in the arena.”

“It’s beautiful,” he breathes. “You know that I have to ask, but how does a girl, who everyone didn’t expect to be so /talented/, manage to get an eleven?”

“I guess I’m just gifted,” she replies, and smiles even bigger when the audience applauds.

“You /definitely/ are. What was the Reaping like for you?”

“It was all kind of a blur,” she says softly. She hopes that she’s being convincing, that her voice sounds innocent and that the Capitol eats it all up. She needs sponsors if she wants to win. “I’d taken out tesserae because my family needed it, but now…”

“You’re wondering if it was really worth it.”

“Yes.”

“Are you ready to win?”

She nods, that much she’s sure about. “Yes Caesar, I am.” This gets more applause and Caesar reaches to grab her hand, squeezing it reassuringly, and offering her a sympathetic smile.

“What about what happened yesterday at training? Did she scare you?”

“She did,” Myka lies again, because a part of her knows that Helena isn’t anything to worry about, not when she had the chance to kill Myka twice already.. “But I couldn’t have backed down, not without admitting weakness. I could have died before even reaching the games, just to preserve my pride.”

“And you’re still standing,” he crows, a smile wide on his face. “So you must’ve done something right.”

“I guess I did.”

 

.,.

  
The morning of the Games, Myka is jolts upright in her bed, not even fully awake as Pete pounds on her door. She doesn’t remember falling asleep, just staring up into the darkness. She gets out of bed languidly, listening to Pete’s groans of ‘Mykes, c’mon’ (when did she get a nickname?) and eventually opening the door.

Pete doesn’t wait to be invited in, instead pushing his way past her and plopping onto the bed. Myka follows, a combination of hesitant and drowsy.

“We need to discuss a strategy.”

Myka curls into a ball on the bed, pulling the blanket around her. “What time is it?”

“Like, six. Why?”

“Pete,” she groans. “It starts in six hours. I need to sleep.”

“How can you sleep? Seriously, I’ve been up all night trying to think of what the arena might be.”

“I was up all night trying to sleep, mind you, so I won’t fall off the platform and trigger the mine.”

“You wouldn’t do that,” he argues, but a part of his voice sounds unsure.

She sighs, pushing herself up to glare at him. “Okay. What do you got?”

  
.,.

  
Helena supposes that it’s some kind of miracle that she gets a wink of sleep the night before certain death. She’s up about an hour before ten, with blood under her fingernails and little marks on her palms where she dug those nails in. Her headaches and her eyes itch, and she wishes she’d gotten more sleep. She’d tried sleeping more, tried forcing her eyes closed, but her body had other plans, carrying her to the bathroom and emptying the meager contents of her stomach.

James is suspiciously absent from breakfast, as is his ‘crew’, as Helena had started calling the group of people that carry out his every whim. So she eats with Caturanga, silently chewing as much as she can stomach. Her throat, feeling raw and scratched, isn’t having the crispy food at all. She’s almost done, painfully so, when her district partner finally appears, his eyes bloodshot and his shoulder slumped. He joins her at the table as Caturanga excuses himself, placing a hand on Helena’s shoulder before leaving.

.,.

  
“It could be a desert.”

“No,” Myka supplies. “They used that in the 2nd Games and half of the tributes died from snake bites.”

“Okay… What about a jungle?”

“How about we decide our strategy once we get there,” Myka offers, because it’s a little after ten thirty and she’s sure that there will be Capitol officials to get them soon. Pete agrees, and the two of them head to breakfast.

The rest of the morning is a blur of preparation. Breakfast, where Artie tells them to eat as much as they can (which for Myka, isn’t much at all). The officials come to get them later. Myka is scrubbed clean again and they tie her hair up. They dress her in this year’s outfit, which, like the previous years, is predominantly black and waterproof. And when they give her a reversible coat, one side white and the other black, the first thing that flashes in her mind is an arena full of snow.

Pete almost looks handsome when she catches a glimpse of him, before she’s shuttled into their separate corridors and forced onto the hovercrafts. On hers, she sees Claudia, Joshua, Leena, and others she can’t immediately place. Helena’s not on this hovercraft; more than likely they want to keep her and Myka separated.

  
.,.

  
Caturanga hugs her tight, her face against his chest. When he pulls back, pushing something into her hand. She finds her locket, which he’d taken when they first arrived to get check by the Capitol so she could use it as her token. The chain is new, unrecognizable, and the outside of the locket has obviously been polished.

She chuckles sadly when she opens it, finding not only the familiar worn picture of Christina, but one of herself and Caturanga, when she was about ten. “Oh goodness,” she murmurs, rubbing her thumb over it. “I was so little.”

“You still are,” he reminds her. “At least, you’ll always be to me.”

“Thank you,” she says, and hugs him again, breathing in the familiar scent that carries memories of late nights and chess games. “You’ve done so much for me.”

 

.,.

 

She lets out a breath as the platform rises.

_Ten._

Helena looks at the countdown, glowing in the artificial sky. She sees the bag of knives right at the base of the Cornucopia and adjusts her stance. She’s quick, she’ll head straight for them and no one will get in her way.

_Nine._

Myka sees Helena shift almost imperceptibly. Then, she glances at Pete and at the woods to her left and his minute nod is all that tells her he understands. She scans what’s closest to her, before her gaze falls to a sword lying in the snow, about 12 feet from the Cornucopia.

_Eight._

The only sound that Helena can hear is her heart thundering in her ears.

 _Seven_.

Myka feels her breathing quicken and she forces herself to remain calm. She has to.

_Six._

Helena sees James move out of the corner of her eye, and he mouths ‘river’ to her when she meets his gaze. If she makes it out of this bloodbath alive, maybe she’ll consider meeting up with him.

_Five._

Myka sees Sykes recognize her from across the semicircle, sees him shift his body toward her. He’ll come right for her.

_Four._

Helena watches Sykes move and she moves as well, flashing him a brilliant smile when his eyes find her. His eyebrows screw together in confusion and Helena taps her fingers on her thigh impatiently.

_Three._

Myka focuses on the sword and tells herself over and over that she’s fast enough.

_Two._

Helena tenses.

_One._

And they run.  
  


 


	4. running dry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Helena scrambles away from him and runs as hard as she can, and when his eyes fall on her, they’re on her back as she’s disappearing into the forest with her bag of knives and a handful of supplies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> trigger warnings: descriptions of violence

Myka’s legs sprint with a mind of their own, her lungs burning in the cold and her boots crunching in the snow as she runs as hard as she can. She scoops up stray materials whenever she passes them, the backpacks being easiest to hold as she slings a strap over her shoulder and cracks open a nightstick to defend herself. She flinches away when someone barrels toward her, easily dancing out of range as they pull out a knife. Myka focuses on the sword, glinting in the snow and coming even closer as she gains ground. She forces  her breathing out through her nose and urges her legs faster.

And when she vaguely hears Pete call her name, she whips her head to the side to find another tribute coming at her with a spear. She doesn’t think twice when she dodges the clumsy and bloodlusting tribute, letting the boy stumble past her before she kicks the back of his knees in and cracks the nightstick against the back of his head. Pete catches up to her as she stares at the knocked out tribute, and tugs on her arm. She registers his voice only vaguely, and when she turns to him, she only sees the axe in his hand and immediately flinches away.

The sounds of battle around them is drowned out by the thundering in her ears. Pete’s hands go up placatingly, and he looks at her with wide eyes. “Mykes! Woah, it’s me!”

She shakes her head and sound comes back. She nods at him, wiping her mouth and unknowingly smearing blood on her lips. “Cover me,” she tells him, before bolting off in the direction of the sword. A blond boy stands in the way, holding a bloody bat.

She slows. Behind her, she can hear the sounds of fighting.

The sounds of dying.

“I got him,” she hears Pete say from behind her, and Myka doesn’t want to think about what that means. Pete rushes past her, and uses Myka’s nightstick to break the other kid’s jaw. Pete rears his arm back, the one with the axe, just as Myka reaches him.

“Don’t,” she says, picking the sword off of the ground. Scared kids stay out of her range; no one wants to challenge her, not with a score of eleven, a sword in her hand, and blood spattered on her face. She slings the sheath of the sword over one shoulder, the weapon a reassuring weight on her back.

Pete, standing with one foot on the chest of the other tribute, looks bigger than he actually is. He eyes her warily and she inspects the kid, who lays moaning and clutching his face. She looks at her district partner, with his axe in one hand and her nightstick in the other.

She tips her head to the forest. “Leave him. The Careers will finish him off.”

 

.,.

 

The moment that zero is flashing in the sky, she throws herself off of the platform. She was right in assuming that she’s faster than most. The knives that she targeted earlier are ripe for the picking and she gets to them with time to spare. And Sykes, who’s going straight for Myka, doesn’t notice Helena sprinting after him. She’s close enough to taste him, as he artfully dodges other tributes and picks up a few backpacks.

To say that he’s surprised when she tackles him from behind, stopping his motion as she pulls back his head and reaches for one of her knives is an understatement. His nails rake her arm as he struggles to pull free. She doesn’t get the chance to slit his throat before he crumples to the ground, slightly dislodging her. He slams her into the snow, effectively making her release her hold as the air rushes out of her chest. Sykes gets on his feet and looks around the snowy field, littered with bloody bodies, and absent a certain Myka Bering.

Helena scrambles away from him and runs as hard as she can, and when his eyes fall on her, they’re on her back as she’s disappearing into the forest with her bag of knives and a handful of supplies.

She trips and falls after about ten minutes of running. She doesn’t get up right away, limiting her breathing and trying to quiet herself. The ground is cold, she hopes there are gloves in her bag that she’d picked up. She turns over and stares at the sky, wondering how they manage to get it to look so real. She decides then that it’s a good time to go through her inventory. In the bag she’d snatched, there’s nothing substantial. An empty water bottle and a few dried food packets is all she has to her name, along with a pair of gloves at. That, and about fifteen knives, ten of them throwing knives and the rest for hunting.

She leans against a nearby tree, watching her breath billow in a fog out in front of her. The forest itself is deathly silent, the only sound she can hear is her own breathing. She stiffens when she hears the crunch of snow underfoot behind her, sliding up the tree as she stands. Her bag’s contents are still strewn out on the ground in front of her, but the knives she’d moved to her belt. She grabs one now, holding it confidently in her hand. She turns around and backs away from the tree, and someone scrambles to hide out of sight. They’d tried to sneak up on her.

“Come on out,” she calls softly, tightening her grip after flipping the knives in her fingers.

She sees the toe of a boot peek out from behind a tree, and soon the figure of a small kid. He gazes at her, empty handed and slightly shivering, and Helena vaguely recognizes him. Part of her knows she shouldn’t kill him, that she can use him, and that part wins out. She puts her hands up, showing him the knife. “I won’t hurt you.”

/Besides/, she thinks, /if we’re going to take down Sykes, we’ll need more than just MacPherson and myself./

“It’s all right,” she urges, when the kid doesn’t move. “What’s your name?”

“Wolcott.” His voice is as small as his frame. Helena crouches down, resting her arms on her knees.

“And how old are you, Wolcott?”

He eyes her suspiciously, before taking a step back when he sees more of her knives in her bag. She puts her knife down when she understands, throwing it over back to her bag. Then, she looks at him expectantly.

“I’m thirteen,” he responds, still half hidden by a dead bush. “What’s your name?”

“I’m Helena.” She fully sits down, after affirming that he has no more weapons, and beckons him over. “Would you like to sit with me?”

He hesitates. She can see the conflict in his gaze, and she hopes he doesn’t run away. Finally, he nods, before stepping into the small clearing and sitting across from her. He flinches when she picks up a knife, poised and ready to flee whenever, but she grabs the blade instead of the handle. She holds it out to him.

“To protect yourself,” she murmurs, reaching forward to press the handle into his palm. His hands are still shaking. “You’ll help me, yes?”

“Yeah,” he agrees, taking the knife and holding it tightly.

“I’ll show you how to use it in a bit,” she says. “Would you like that?”

“Very much.” And for a second, Helena thinks he doesn’t look as scared.

 

.,.

 

As they run from the bloodbath, they only stop briefly to pick up supplies on the ground (which are getting sparser as they get farther from the Cornucopia). They keep running until the sounds of battle are behind them, only pausing to get drinks of water here and there. They slow to a jog, Myka ignoring the ache in her lungs because she needs to get away from everyone as soon as possible, needs to find a place alone. They run through the forest of pine trees, the snow on the ground not as thick as it was around the Cornucopia, and when they finally break through the trees, the ground falls away beneath them.

Myka loses her footing on the slope of ice, and slides down the hill painfully, getting snow in uncomfortable places. She hears Pete call out her name and she wants to tell him to shut up, because they can’t attract attention.

When she reaches the bottom, every part of her body aching and probably bruised. She tightens her coat around her body and curls into herself, hugging her legs before she starts to cry.

She doesn’t know how long she’d been on the ground, not registering the cold right away, before Pete finds her. She’s thinking about survival, about hiding, and how Pete is seeing her cry. She’d just laid there, listening to him as he made his way down the slope noisily. He’d put a hand on her shoulder and sat beside her, and she’d let him. And when she hugs him, she sobs into his shoulder until the tears stop coming. She’s the first one to get up, wiping her nose and shuddering at the sudden loss of contact warmth.

She takes off her coat and flips it to the white side, re-ties her hair back and out of her face, and surveys their surroundings. They’re in a valley, pines and snow surrounding them on all sides.

“We should find a water source,” Myka says automatically, once Pete is on his feet.

“That shouldn’t be hard,” Pete responds, picking up a handful of snow.

“I swear Pete, if you throw that at me… And anyways, they could’ve done something to it. It’s not real snow, it’s engineered specifically for these games. There could be poison in it.”

“So we boil it,” Pete shrugs, before putting a small ball of snow into his mouth.

Myka stares at him. “Did you seriously just…? Fine,” she says flippantly, when he continues to eat snow. “Be stupid.”

“Wait - wait. We should go through what we have.”

She rolls her eyes, ignoring the pout that comes onto his face when he sees her do it. “We’ll find a place to sleep first.”

“Okay, fine,” he groans. “We’ll do this your way.”

 

.,.

 

Helena and Wolcott are trying to find MacPherson when they find someone else. Another tribute, hastily trying to make a fire and cook something before night falls, and Helena tells Wolcott to stay hidden. She grabs the girl from  behind, tightening her arm around the other tribute’s neck until she passes out. She lets the girl fall to the ground. Calling out to Wolcott, she tries to remember the tribute’s name.

The boy looks terrified as he stands away from her. “Do you remember her name?” Helena asks curiously, still gazing down at the blonde girl.

“I think it’s Amanda Martin.”

Helena nods. “That sounds right.” She looks up at him. “Can you kill her?”

She sees his breath quicken, sees him stumble back, shaking his head fervently. She reaches down and feels the girls pulse getting quicker. She’ll be waking up soon.

“You only have about a minute before she regains consciousness,” she says softly. “Then you’ll be killing her and she’ll be screaming. Would you rather she be in pain?”

He shakes his head again, looking less unsure. “Do I really have to?”

“No,” she sighs. “But if I kill her, how do you know I won’t kill you?” She stares at him, all apathetic eyes and tightly pressed together lips. She sees his fingers twitch and she knows that he’s thinking about it, about grabbing the knife in his belt.

She’s surprised when he actually does. He screws his eyes closed and plunges blindly, burrowing the knife deep into Amanda’s stomach. Helena doesn’t let her finger leave the girl’s pulse point, feeling the slight tap under the skin getting weaker and weaker. Wolcott sits down and runs his hands through his short hair, staining most of it with Amanda’s blood. The thick red liquid pours out of her wound in gushes, until it comes to a trickle. Helena pulls her hand away when Amanda’s pulse stops, and pulls out the knife.

A cannon goes off in the distance, symbolizing someone’s death.

 

.,.

 

The pine forest goes on for what feels like miles, Myka’s legs screaming as they make their way through the trees. Looming before them, is a huge mountain that Myka knows they’ll eventually have to climb. She wonders if it could be just an illusion of the arena and not really there, that maybe the arena stops before then. The snow is getting thinner, easier to walk through.

The eerie silence is broken when the boom of a cannon goes off in the distance, signaling the death of another tribute. Myka’s anxious for the death count, the broadcast in the sky telling them who died, and by extension, who is left. Pete, who’s a little ways behind her, half jogs to catch up.

“So who do you think…?”

“I’m not sure. Could be anyone.”

They find their tree before it gets dark. A large pine with branches thick enough to shield them from sight. Pete eyes the trunk warily, but when Myka questions him on if he can climb it, he nods stiffly. It’s barely dark yet, so they settle at the base of their tree, and spread out what they’ve got.

Four backpacks (one of which is empty), one blanket, two pairs of gloves (they put those on immediately), three bottles (two are filled with water), two hunting knives, eight packets of mush (Myka learns that they’re are supposed to be energy boosters), some cord, two climbing hooks, ten small bags of dried food, and one pair of snowshoes.

Pete sighs. “I guess we’ll be hunting for a while.”

“That’s okay,” she whispers. “Let’s gather it up and get into the tree.” Myka climbs up first, just bringing up one end of the cord with her. She finds a good place about 20ft up. They use the cord to pull up branches and Myka makes a makeshift bed. She pulls up their bags and sets them on it, and soon Pete is balancing on a branch beside her. “Can you sleep sitting against the tree?”

He looks unsure, but nods again. He ties her into place and she helps him get situated, both of them on branches close together to share warmth. By the time they’re settled in, darkness has fallen and Myka knows that the announcements should be anytime now. She feels Pete attempt to relax against her, as he tries to control his breathing into long and deep breaths.

 

.,.

  
  


The sky lights up. And in white light against the artificial sky, the names of the dead.

Amanda Martin.

Benedict Valda.

Theodora Stanton.  
Deb Stanley.

Tyler Struhl.

Ashley McShane.

Sam Martino. The face of the boy that Myka spared flashes and she stiffens.

Kelly Hernandez.

Jack Secord.

Rebecca St. Clair.

Emily Lake.

 

.,.

 

Myka has a hard time falling asleep. It’s about five minutes before their part of the world falls into darkness again before Pete is snoring beside her. The noise he’s making isn’t loud, and she knows that it won’t be detectable from the ground, but it makes her worry all the same. She holds her breath and wants to clamp a hand over Pete’s mouth when someone passes beneath them. It’s too dark to see them, but she can definitely hear their footsteps. They don’t stop under their tree, just make their way slowly up the hill that Myka and Pete had spent the day going down.

After that, Myka is too tense to sleep. Her muscles ache and she knows she should rest, but her ears are tuned to every minor sound. The only sounds being Pete’s occasional sleep grunt and her breathing. Myka lets her head fall against the tree. If she wasn’t tied to the tree she would climb higher and look out over the valley.

Maybe in the morning, she thinks, before closing her eyes and trying to sleep again.

 

.,.

 

Helena finds MacPherson easier than she would’ve thought. Her and Wolcott kept moving through the night, avoiding conversation and other tributes the best they could. Once they had come to the river, they started to follow it. Helena documents the twists of the water in the map she’s constructed in her head of the arena. Now, standing in the shadows and watching MacPherson sit in his little camp with his fire in the middle of the night, she wants to slit his throat. She almost yearns for it, fueled mainly by his stupidity and her promise to help him.

He obviously isn’t trying to be stealthy, as he’s risking a fire in the pitch black night. But then again, Helena reasons, it’s so obvious that it’s /too/ obvious, and like her and Wolcott, tributes will avoid fires rather than come to them. Wolcott, getting braver by the second, unsheathes his knife when he spots James.

Helena fights the urge to grin, instead placing a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “He’ll be with us,” she reassures him quietly. “He’ll help us.”

She tells him to stay there and she casually walks to MacPherson’s camp.

“Oh James,” she laments. “This is awfully open.”

He turns to her, grinning. “I knew you’d find me.”

“The important matter is, if I can, who else will? Sykes, maybe?”

“Oh no,” MacPherson shakes his head. “He’s up the mountain enjoying a life of comfort in the Cornucopia, I would guess. A life that we will be soon be living, might I add.”

Helena sits herself down on a rock. “Woolly, come on out,” she calls, grabbing James’ hand when he reaches for a knife. “Calm down, he’s going to help us out.”

When the boy comes over and sits down next to her, MacPherson scoffs. “What are you, eight?”

“Thirteen.”

“Like that’s any better.”

“Stop,” Helena says harshly. “Sykes isn’t working alone, you know. We need all the help we can get.” She turns to the fire, ending all further conversation of the matter, and places her hands practically in the flames. One licks at her hand, the heat not nearly as painful as she’d expected. MacPherson doesn’t question her, just pokes at the fire with a stick and tries to cast a dirty glare at the younger boy over Helena’s shoulder.

“Are you in grade school?” Helena snaps. “You’re practically an adult, act like one. Speaking of, what’s our plan?”

MacPherson scowls at her. “We need to take down Sykes and whoever is working with him. The rest come after that.”

“Splendid,” Helena murmurs, before resting her hands above the fire once again.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry that this chapter is a little short, but it was harder to write than the others. 
> 
> The updates might get a little more spread out as I'm doing NaNoWriMo along with this (a certain someone convinced me to), but at this point, it's all put together, I just have to write it.


	5. close call

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> James is devising a plan against Sykes for the three of them. Helena has told him many times that they should start to make their way back to the Cornucopia, where Sykes and his allies are, but her counterpart refuses, saying that everything will fall into place with this plan.
> 
> Problem is, she wants to know what it is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> trigger warnings: descriptions of violence
> 
> beta'd by my new friend Karo aka tumblr user velmster (seriously, she's amazing)

In the back of her mind, Helena knows that she’s had this dream before.

She’s lived this moment before.

But it still hurts.

She’s holding her for barely ten minutes before there’s a sharp knocking on her door. The Peacekeepers don’t even let her grant them permission, they just force their way in and say words that she doesn’t remember before they’re taking the small bundle out of her arms. They leave without an explanation and Helena has never hated anything more than she hates the Capitol.

This empty feeling, the one that she’s become so accustomed to, is still unsettling and instills a certain amount of fear inside of her.

 

.,.

 

Helena’s eyes open wide and scared, but that is the only thing showing her fear. The nightmare is back, here of all places. Perfect.

Her breath doesn’t quicken, her legs itch to run, and the sadness is a familiar feeling ripping through her. The Capitol has taken her just like they took…

The emptiness rolling through her is weighing her down, and after shifting her head to the side she sees James sitting in the shadows. His knife gleams in the the moonlight, and she watches him lean his head against the trunk of a tree. A slight beeping sounds in the night, and she watches a parachute fall through the air.

She vaguely remembers him offering immediately to take first watch, even after they had walked all day. She needs to know what is in that parachute.

 

.,.

 

The arena is a nightmare.

She’s cold and shivering and being twenty feet off of the ground and tied to a tree isn’t helping. Not to mention that they’re well into morning and Pete is /still/ asleep. Myka is starting to realize that letting Pete tie them in maybe wasn’t the brightest idea because the knot is just barely out of her reach. She doesn’t want to talk too loud in the case of someone being underneath them. She can’t incline her neck to even see the ground.

Myka puffs out a breath of cold air irritatedly, the fog billowing out in front of her. She strains against the ropes holding her in place, testing the strength of Pete’s knots. She knows that if she could reach the knot she’d be able to untie it, but it’s just barely a few inches away from her fingers. She feels extremely exposed, hidden in plain sight, and her fingers itch for the helm of her sword, which is only inches away. She makes as much noise as she dares which isn’t much: only groaning in frustration and pulling against her restraints.

After a moment, she kicks Pete. Or at least tries to. It’s an awkward angle, and she has to stretch her leg in a slightly painful way, but it gets the job done. He rouses slowly, while she watches him as he panics at first, gripping the branch underneath him hard enough to make his knuckles white. For a moment she’s afraid that he’s going to fall, but he steadies himself before looking at her with wide eyes. She stares back impatiently.

“Did you do that?” he whispers. “Did you kick me?”

She nods stiffly, hoping that he gets the message, but as the relief pools across his features, she reminds herself not to think that much of him. Her irritation grows when he struggles to stand on his own, stretching his arms above his head (one arm at a time, while the other tightly clutches a nearby branch).

“Wow, Myka,” he breathes, looking out over the horizon. “You have to check out this view.”

“Uh, Pete?”

He gazes down at her, no trace of the panic she’d seen in his eyes before, and she internally resolves to leave a bruise on his arm for how much this infuriates her. She just feels so… helpless.

“Yeah?”

She hopes that the thought she’s dreading doesn’t occur to him. How could she be so stupid? Letting him tie her in and not pay attention to how he’d done it. She’s tied to a tree and she can’t grab any weapons and has absolutely no way to defend herself. She hopes that he’s not that quick. “Could you untie me?” she tries, attempting to keep them anger out of her voice. The anger that is quickly turning to fear.

It's obvious when he senses her discomfort because the regret falls off of him in waves before he scramble to untie the knots binding her. She can’t help the sigh of relief that escapes her when the rope falls loose and she can move her arms more than just a few inches.

When she finally gets to her feet, balancing easily on the wide branch beneath her, she looks out over the snow covered valley at the horizon, where the sun is just peeking over the faraway trees. “You’re right,” she agrees quietly, before bending to pick up her sword and sling it over her shoulder.

She looks up in surprise when there’s a loud snap from up the hill. Several more follow after and she strains to see through the thick pines. Pete looks at her, no doubt looking for an explanation, before everything around them goes white.

She is engulfed by a literal mountain’s worth of snow, crashing through her entire being. She chokes on snow as it attempts to become her life source. The solidarity that was under her feet a moment ago is gone and she grips blindly at the strap around her chest. If she loses this sword, it’s all over. The words echo in her mind as sound is erased and she grits her teeth and lets her body be thrown around by snow. The cold reaches through her and caresses bone before she screws her eyes even tighter.

It only takes a stray branch and bad luck before she has a nasty cut on her head and the world around her falls into darkness.

 

.,.

 

MacPherson watches her almost all of the time now.

Helena knows that if she offered to go and hunt he would be up and standing next to her, readying his weapons and saying that he’ll go too. She knows that he thinks he’s being sneaky or that she’s not aware of his blank gaze, but she is. His eyes itch over her skin and leave disgusting scars like a dull blade trying to cut into skin. But she lets it go because her knife, her very sharp knife, is in her hand.

Maybe he watches her because he knows that he can’t do this without her.

Woolly, as Helena had unconsciously started calling him, makes himself busy attending to their early morning fire and being a good look out. They send him out on scouting missions and he reports back diligently. He’s quiet, but Helena knows it’s because he’s scared of James. He’d already reported two separate tributes that hadn’t made James lift a finger, just reacted with an offhanded tilt of his head and a “don’t worry about them.”

James is devising a plan against Sykes for the three of them. Helena has told him many times that they should start to make their way back to the Cornucopia, where Sykes and his allies are, but her counterpart refuses, saying that everything will fall into place with this plan.

Problem is, she wants to know what it is.

After they send Woolly on another scouting mission across the river, she takes a chance. “Say, James?”

For once, he’s not looking at her, but down at the piece of bark that he’s carving. “Yes?” he cuts too close to his finger but doesn’t slice flesh, just a pesky piece of wood sticking out.

“How exactly are we to take on Sykes and, I’m assuming, his three companions?”

He stills, but only for a moment, hiding whatever emotion that had passed through him well. “Three?” he asks, almost disinterestedly, but Helena watches his fingers. He holds the wood, doesn’t cut it, as he waits for a response, and she smiles because she knows his tells.

“District four,” she lists, “that’s two of them. And Diamond, from eleven. That’s three.”

He looks at her, finally. “Well, I have you.”

She holds his gaze steadily. “Yes, and what about when it gets to be the two of us?”

It’s almost as if he bites his tongue to keep down whatever it was he was going to say. Instead he shrugs, looking back down at the wood in his fingers. “Let the best win, then.”

Woolly comes running into their camp and doesn’t let her snarl back a reply. The boy struggles to catch his breath, stumbling around the words and making them unintelligible. “Slower,” Helena urges, her senses on high alert.

“There’s… there’s two tributes just… beyond the river. A boy and a girl… heading this way.”

James perks up at that, throwing the piece of bark into the trees. “Do they know we’re here? Did they see you?”

Woolly shakes his head firmly. “No. That I’m sure of. They were talking about finding somewhere sheltered for the night. I didn’t see any weapons on them.”

James reaches for his bag with a grin on his face before pulling out a long knife. “Let’s go get them.”

He leads the way into the trees with Helena and Woolly close behind. Helena has her knife out, and she sees the boy beside her hesitate to pull out his. She puts a hand on his shoulder. “We’re going to kill them,” she says softly, not holding back. “James is going to go for the boy and I am going to go with him and your job is to make sure that the girl doesn’t get away. I won’t ask you to kill her. Just don’t let her get away.”

He stares ahead and avoids her gaze. “Can you do that?” she questions, stopping them completely.

He looks at her, the fear in his eyes resonating within her. He’s not scared of killing, she knows, he’s scared of her. “You’re not going to let me win,” he whispers.

She bites her lip, looking over his shoulder at James waiting for them a ways away. “No,” she agrees. “You’re not going to win. But neither am I.”

“Is he?”

“No, James isn’t going to win, either,” she says. “But I’ll make sure you don’t lose painfully, and you’re not going to lose yet. So keep fighting, yes?” She strokes her thumb on his cheek, forcing him to look at her. Eventually he nods, then James coughs. She nods at him firmly, then they resume making their way through the forest, with Woolly giving them directions.

When they finally come upon the tributes, they find the duo stopping to get some water. It’s the girl from three, with fiery red hair, talking her brother’s ear off about seeing a squirrel. The boy, Joshua, pulls a knife from his belt and uses it to cut some roots out of the ground before giving the meager rations to his sister. Helena and James, after a look and a minute nod, go for the boy together.

The siblings don’t know what hits them, Helena coming from one direction and James from the other. Helena lunges for the knife in Joshua’s hand, securing a strong grip on his wrist, and she holds her breath when she has to spin out of the way from the blade. She twists his arm behind him until he drops the knife, just as James secures his neck in the crook of his elbow.

Woolly and the girl wrestle for a meager second, before Claudia bites his arm, getting out of his hold, and looks wildly about for her brother.

“Claudia - go!” Joshua yells, before James holds him tighter. “Run!” he screams, before James snaps his neck. Claudia bolts into the trees, running as hard as she can and ignoring the sickening sound she hears behind her. Helena acts on instinct, throwing the knife in her hand and hoping that it hits its mark, just as the mark is out of sight. She storms over to Woolly, who holds his bloody forearm gingerly.

His eyes widen when James runs his blade across Joshua’s throat, watching the blood literally gush out of the wound. James lets go of Joshua’s hair and the dead tribute falls into a puddle of blood stained snow. A cannon goes off.

Helena is fuming, regarding Claudia as just another tribute that can hide all she wants and make it all the more difficult for this games to just end. She grabs Woolly’s arm and ignores his cry of pain as she drags him next to the water. She plunges the bite under the water, staring at the boy with tears streaming down his face. “She’s gone,” he says, clearing his throat. “I screwed up.”

She shakes her head. “Yes, you did.”

 

.,.

 

Myka wakes up in a field of snow and fallen trees. Blood stains the snow around, and she gingerly feels her head, feeling a long cut near her hairline. Her limbs ache when she moves, and something digs into her back. She pulls at the strap that is still around her and checks to make sure that her sword is undamaged. She inspects it carefully, grateful that the sheath is still in working order as well.

A cannon going off makes her snap her head up.

Pete.

She scans the field and she sees something black sticking out of white. She struggles to get up, careful to test out joints before putting full pressure on them, and she ignores the dizziness and the pounding in her head. The snow tugs at her like an insistent lover, chilling her even more as she drags her feet through the thick of it. She gets to it, finding only a backpack that she almost frantically digs around. Her breath quickens when she finds a hand gripping the strap. She digs through the burning in her muscles until she finds Pete’s face, with blue lips and snow in his hair.

She doesn’t hesitate, pressing her lips to his and pinching his nose and breathing. She remembers her panic this morning and knows she needs to repay the favor. She can’t let him die.

Pete coughs out a combination of snow and blood, and when Myka sits him up she reasons that he might have bruised a rib. He wipes at his lips, the bottom one split. “Ouch,” he croaks, and she bursts out in relieved laughter.

“Do you think you can walk?”

He grimaces at the pressure of her fingers on his chest before nodding. “Yeah, I’ll manage.” He taps the backpack next to him. “I got our bag, Mykes.” It’s the one they’d filled with the food and water, and she feels like she could use some it right now. She helps Pete to his feet and secures the backpack around his shoulders. His legs prove useful and he stumbles along beside her as they walk awhile in silence. She lets Pete slump against her as the two of them shuffle along. She stays alert, tensed and ready to get her sword if she needs it.

Eventually, they find a small stream that merges with the river. In Myka’s mental map of the arena, she supposes that the river goes straight through the middle of it. There’s a waterfall, about the height of their old tree, and, after further investigation, Myka finds a small cave behind it. She leads Pete and tries not to get him wet, but it’s unavoidable. Inside though, the air feels almost warmer. She gets Pete situated, careful not to press too hard on his chest.

He closes his eyes and sighs. She raises a bottle of water to his lips because she knows that dehydration can kill and it’s stupid not to make him drink any. His eyelids flutter open when she gives him some of the dried food too, and he starts to argue when she presses it into his hand. “No,” he whispers, attempting to give it back to her. “We can’t waste our supplies.”

“I’ll go hunting then,” she explains. “Eat all you want because when I come back I’ll have more.”

She ignores his glare and leaves, ducking under the waterfall to look at the orange sky. The sun is setting. She’s taken back home, where she used to sit under her window and read with the remaining light. Her mother, sister, and herself had just finished dinner, and downstairs she could hear her mother getting ready for her shift. She’d rushed downstairs and hugged her mother goodbye, blushing slightly when Jeanne pressed a kiss to her daughter’s head.

Myka’s dragged out of the memory as a large chunk of ice breaks off of the waterfall and splashes in the small pool under it. She makes her way into the forest, blending in silently. Catching a squirrel can’t be that difficult, right? To her left, she hears a skittering in the snow in an otherwise quiet forest. She’s partly hoping that a deer will come along and let her stab it a few times. That would definitely feed them for some time.

She pulls her sword out of its sheath when she hears the sound of footsteps. Human or not, she can’t tell, but she hides all the same, pressing herself against a tree in the shadows. Someone comes to a stumbling halt near her; she hears a small pained whimper when they trip and fall into the snow. She peeks out from behind her tree.

Claudia curls into a ball face down in the snow, blood matting in her hair and on her shoulder. Myka looks closer. No, not her hair. She sees a knife buried deep into the girl’s shoulder, a dirty wound. Half of her shirt is soaked in blood.

Myka goes to her before she convinces herself to leave her there. “Shh, Claudia, stop,” she says, when the girl makes a halfhearted scream as Myka sits next to her. “It’s just me, it’s Myka. I’m not going to hurt you.” The girl’s fingers are freezing and Myka wraps them in her own. She wants to give Claudia her coat, but… that knife has to come out first.

“Claudia?” The girl, with tear stained cheeks, looks at her carefully. “Where’s… where’s your brother?”

After a moment, Claudia just shakes her head, her eyes going far away, almost like she’s just not there. Myka nods and turns her over, looking over the wound critically. “Okay,” she says, almost to herself. “Okay, I’m going to take this out.” She taps Claudia’s arm. “It’s going to hurt. Are you okay?” Claudia nods, curling even further into herself. She makes a small sound when Myka gets a firm grip on the handle of the knife, but stays quiet when the older girl pulls it out.

Myka presses her fingers into the wound, which is a lot better than she’d assumed at first. It takes a while, but the bleeding stops. Myka rips a strip of cloth from the black inside of her coat and ties it around Claudia’s thin torso, making sure to cover the wound. She pulls the girl up, sliding her arms through the sleeves. “Come on,” she says quietly. “Come with me.”

 

.,.

 

Pete is surprised to see Claudia but he doesn’t treat her any differently. Myka finds that he didn’t touch the food packet she’d given him, so she gives it to Claudia instead, who eats it slowly and cautiously. It’s dark by now, and after checking to ensuring that you couldn’t see a fire from the outside of the waterfall, they make one. It’s considerably warmer than spending the night in a tree, Myka muses. Pete makes Claudia laugh and no one talks about Joshua. They don’t go outside to watch the announcements because there was only one cannon that day and they all know who it was for.

Claudia is asleep by the time the fire dies out. Myka attempts to keep it going, using a knife and a rock to draw some sparks. Pete watches her, warm from the girl cuddled into his side. Myka moves to check Claudia’s wounds (which, after having been cleaned and washed out, turned out not very extreme), making sure a clean portion of the cloth is binding it.

“I’m going to go walk for a bit,” she says quietly, and while Pete looks like he wants to argue, he just nods and lets her go. In the forest, Myka keeps her sword sheathed and listens to the nightlife. She wonders if there is anybody up watching them right now. She wonders about who the camera is on and if they had to decide to show Pete and Myka’s avalanche or to show Joshua’s death. Maybe her mother was watching earlier and thought that Myka could’ve been dead, that it could have all been over.

The artificial silence of the arena echoes back to her.

She stumbles in the snow and is too slow to react when a knife appears at her throat. She’s more surprised than anything, because she’s far away from the waterfall and she’s wondering how someone managed to sneak up on her. Whoever it is isn’t budging, even as she pulls at the arm holding the knife. “Get it over with,” she growls, almost too loud.

A very familiar voice breathes into her ear. “It is to both of our advantages if you remain quiet.”

Helena.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> Also, I use the song Carousel by Morning Parade for inspirationg (ie - where the titles of chapters come from and such) and I used a lyric for the title of the entire fic as well. Check it out if you're interested!


	6. until daylight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "So we need the Cornucopia," Pete says quietly.
> 
> "If we don't want to starve to death."
> 
> "So it's starve or get stabbed. Great."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> trigger warning: descriptions of violence

“It is to both of our advantages if you remain quiet,” a voice murmurs in her ear, the air hot and burning into her skin. The moment she recognizes it, everything falls into place. The press of the smaller girl against her back, the deftness with a knife, and the silent stalking. It all points to Helena. Myka can feel the hesitance behind Helena’s grip, the knife only slightly digging in.

She feels stupid. She doesn’t understand why the other girl doesn’t just slit her throat and get on with it. It would be easier.

“Not if you plan on killing me,” she retorts, her voice loud compared to Helena’s whisper. The knife at her neck digs in a little deeper as Helena sighs irritatedly. Myka can feel the sting as it cuts into her skin, a drip of blood leaving a trail of heat on her neck. Something about the way Helena is holding the knife tells her that she won’t use it to kill.

“I don’t,” her captor says simply, like it’s obvious, but she makes no move to release her.

Myka categorizes the situation, surprised by her complete lack of fear. She isn’t afraid to die, she knows that. Something tells her that she isn’t going to die. Not now. Helena is smaller than her, in both height and frame, meaning that she might have the advantage of speed, but not if Myka takes the older girl by surprise.

“Then I have nothing to lose,” she breathes, before yanking herself out of Helena’s arms. She was right in assuming the other girl wouldn’t hurt her, because the moment she moves, Helena lets the knife clatter to the ground. Myka rounds on her, sword gleaming in her hand and red reflecting off of her neck. Helena is surprised, to say the least, gazing at Myka curiously.

Helena steps out of the way of Myka’s clumsy swing and makes a grab for the taller girl’s wrist. She twists it expertly and the sword falls into the snow. Myka wretches her hand out of Helena’s grip. Myka is fuming, her cheeks burning with rage, while Helena looks at her calmly. The air between them buzzes with uncertainty, before Myka lunges, using the best hand to hand combat she knows. Her fists are blocked every time and she quickly realizes that they are going nowhere with this.

Helena has Myka cornered when she backs into a tree, cursing under her breath. Helena pins her there, her arm making it just barely difficult to swallow. .

“So kill me,” Myka seethes, because she is angry and her vision is red and because she wants this world to be no longer. She wants to kick the crap out of the girl in front of her, she wants to win this games just to prove a point, and she wants to die. She wants to die at the hands of this girl.

She sees the indecision in Helena’s eyes. No doubt the cameras are on them. There’s no telling whether anyone is awake to be watching their exchange, but she knows that this moment is being recorded and will be broadcasted on televisions tomorrow and for anyone who wishes to view it after this day. It makes her even more angry that her family will have to watch her die, or that the millions in the Capitol will get pleasure from it.

She’s just so /angry/. It’s always been there, in the back of her mind, the hope that she might win this thing, and she doesn’t want it to be shattered right here and right now.

She finally closes her eyes as Helena shifts against her, unsure. She lets out a cool breath of resignation. She wonders if her father will think making her apply for tesserae was worth it.

“Kill me,” she says again.

She’s expecting Helena to thrust a knife in her gut because she knows the other girl isn’t stupid enough to keep only one knife. She’s not expecting Helena’s lips to close over her own. It’s short and insignificant, but it gives Myka time to reverse them, even as flustered as she is. “What the hell was that for,” she growls.

Helena looks at her, really looks at her, conflict in her eyes that confuses Myka to no end. They stand there a moment, breathing heavily and Myka still feeling the tingle of Helena’s lips on her own just a moment ago.

“I need your help,” Helena says after a moment, the words coming out like a sigh, and offers no explanation about the kiss.

“What /was/ that?” she demands, quieter this time.

Helena’s head rolls to the side stubbornly. “I’ve wanted to do that for a while. I needed to get your attention. Now, will you help me?”

Myka sees a shift in Helena’s expression, resignation falling over her features like a blanket of snow. She gets the overwhelming sense that despite everything, and for some very odd reason, Helena trusts her.

Myka wishes that she was the type of person who could just kill the rest of the tributes, get this damn thing over with, and end up drinking herself to death like most victors.

“What is it?” she asks, her voice lower and her arm still against Helena’s neck. She feels the smaller girl shift underneath her, feels Helena take a staggering breath.

“MacPherson got a parachute a while ago, might’ve been a day ago, I don’t know I’m not keeping track.” Helena pauses, looking at something behind Myka before sighing again. “He didn’t mention it to us, he doesn’t know that I know.”

Myka is acutely aware of the sounds around her, the usually silent forest shaking with the wind. “Know what?”

“That he poisoned me.”

Myka’s pressure loosens a bit as she falters; Helena’s words are definitely not what she was expecting.

“I… I don’t know what he gave me. I don’t know if it’s lethal or - or...” Helena stops. “He put it in my food and then he took Woolly and left.” Her voice softens. “I don’t /want/ to die, Myka. It’s taken a while for me to realize that.”

“Why me?” She drops her arm, takes a step back from Helena who starts rubbing her throat.

Helena slumps to the ground, curling into her coat and wrapping her arms around herself. After a moment, she looks up at Myka, her dark eyes reflecting in the moonlight. She grins. “Because you’re smart. Because you’ll be the one to win this thing and I have a proposition for you.”

 

.,.

 

It’s slow going back to the cave; she’s not used to the route and she had lost her bearing when her and Helena had fought. Helena’s words echo in her head and the parting shadow as Helena disappeared into the trees is what she sees every time she closes her eyes. She makes the decision not to talk to Pete about what happened.. He’d expressed his distrust for Helena early on and he’d only lose his trust in her if she explained it to him. Besides, she thinks, he doesn’t need to know.

When she does finally get back, Claudia and Pete are still curled up together, sharing one coat. Pete blinks at Myka when she prods at the fire, once again coming back empty handed from a hunt. “Did you find anything?” he asks, his voice groggy with sleep.

She shakes her head. “I haven’t seen a single animal since the games began.”

He thinks for a moment. “Could that be it? Force the tributes back to the Cornucopia and back together?” Claudia shifts against him and he quiets his voice. Myka sees his fist tighten. “I hate this.”

“Me too.” Myka leans against the wall, thinking about everything at once. Helena’s request and Pete’s determination and the odd fact that people think she could actually win this. “But that could be the whole game. Lead the needy tributes back to the Careers by lack of forest life. Or force them back because of supply loss. Natural disasters.”

“The avalanche,” Pete says quietly. “So we need the Cornucopia.”

“If we don’t want to starve to death.” She looks at the food packets, only a few left. “These won’t last long.”

He chuckles darkly. “Okay, it’s either starve to death or get stabbed.” He licks his lips, head falling back against the rock. “Great.”

Myka zips up her coat and curls up next to the coals of the fire, savoring the heat radiating from it. The ground is cold in contrast, and somehow the feeling reminds her of her room back home. She remembers the blankets being warm and the rest of the room cold and uninviting. She wonders what Tracy is doing right now; if she’s lying awake in bed thinking about Myka or if she’s having a fitful sleep.

“You know,” Pete says, his voice just above the murmur of the waterfall. “I wonder if my dad is watching this.”

Myka doesn’t want to say it, but she does anyway. “I thought that your dad died.” She blows on the coals softly, watching them glow.

“One night,” Pete continues, like he didn’t hear her. “Someone knocked on our door.” He takes a pregnant pause, fumbling with the strings of one of their bags nervously. “Turns out, my dad was smuggling power to the people who couldn’t afford it, wiring up houses and what not. Peacekeepers forced their way in and dragged him out and the last time I ever saw him was when he was screaming for me to hide.”

Myka chews on her lip, before reaching over to squeeze Pete’s hand.

“My mom was at work,” he adds. “And my sister, well, she’s deaf and she didn’t hear a thing from her room. I ran to her crying, so hysterical I could barely tell her what happened. She’s older, you know, and she held me until our mom came home. I had to tell her that dad had been taken.”

“I’m sorry,” Myka whispers, her voice hollow.

“It was a long time ago,” Pete affirms, less emotion in his voice than before. “Should we come up with a plan? The food packets we have won’t last long,” he adds, repeating her earlier sentiment.

“I know,” Myka sighs. She remembers Helena telling her about James’ plan, about ambushing the four at the Cornucopia. “There are four people there. Sykes and three others.”

“How do you know that?”

She breathes out a puff of cold air, choosing her next words carefully. “I saw James walking around when I was hunting,” she lies. “If he’s out here I’d assume that Sykes got reign over the Cornucopia.”

“So we’ll head that direction in the morning. Back up the mountain.”

“I guess so. We’ll see how Claudia’s shoulder is and ask her for her input, but regardless, we can’t starve to death.”

 

.,.

 

Myka and Pete take shifts on who gets the coat. Claudia has Pete’s on indefinitely, to prevent her healing body from getting a chill. Myka shivers, being the one without a coat now. They’ve been making their way up the mountain for the better part of the morning, trudging through thick snow and hoping that it’s the right direction. They gave Claudia the snowshoes, deciding early on that she’d be better off if she didn’t sink waist deep with every step. The snow gets deeper as they make their way up; Myka doesn’t remember it being so deep around the Cornucopia.

Myka doesn’t want to think about what’s going to happen when it’s just her, Pete, and Claudia left. She doesn’t trust herself enough to kill them.

But she trusts them. Pete, who undoubtedly trusts her when she feels as though she’s given him no reason to. She likes him well enough, knows that she wouldn’t be able to kill him if she tried, and hopes that she can get far enough away from him when there are only a few left.

Claudia, who seems to grow on everyone, is uncharacteristically quiet, but Myka doesn’t blame her. She’s smart, intuitive, cleverer than Myka had originally assumed. Claudia had told them back at the cave that the Cornucopia was at the edge of the arena, stuck in one of the corners. Essentially, by coming up the mountain, Claudia had explained, we were cornering the Careers without even knowing it. She’d said that she would come up with a plan after assessing their layout, but she’d estimated the take down would be relatively easy.

“As easy as killing four people is,” she’d added, her voice hollow.

Through the surprise and eventual agreement, Myka finds that she trusts her.

“Who’s there?” Pete asks suddenly, tightening his fingers around the handle of his axe. Myka unsheathes her sword, mentally cursing herself for not being more on guard. The woods around them are silent for a moment, before someone steps out. Pete takes a step back toward them, assessing the revealed tribute.

“Hello,” Leena says quietly, seemingly undisturbed by three armed tributes aiming weapons at her.

Myka can feel Pete’s hesitation. She steps up, puts a hand on his arm. “She could help,” she murmurs under her breath, hoping that only he can hear her. “With the plan.”

“But what about after?”

“We’ll deal with that when it comes.” Slowly, Pete’s arm lowers and Leena stares at them in that eerie knowing way she has, her eyes filled with the same intensity when she’d been talking to Myka during training. When Myka nods her head just slightly, Leena goes over to Claudia to look at her shoulder wound.

“She needs to rest,” Leena commands, helping Claudia sit down on a rock and removing the rest of her coat to see the whole cut. Pete goes off to the side and looks through their bags, sending Leena a cautionary glance before investing in his task. Leena looks up at Myka, snow caught in her light brown curls, and smiles. “Thank you.”

“We’re going to the Cornucopia,” Myka says simply. “We need the help.”

 

.,.

 

They rest after they reach the edge of the field that houses the Cornucopia. It’s almost nightfall anyway, and Myka offers the take the first watch. Helena was right about their enemies. She spots Steve and Sally, from District 4, who seem to be the guards of the small operation. Even now, glancing through the brush to the far side of the field, Myka can see the two of them walking in circles around the large shelter. Inside of it there’s a fire, where she assumes Sykes and Marcus are.

Four. Four experienced fighters against the four of them.

She’s not too sure about their plan. Pete had suggested that they just ambush and hope for the best. Myka feels as though she’s unprepared. She doesn’t know how someone is supposed to prepare to kill someone else, even if they are coming at you with a weapon. She thinks of their lives back home, of their families, and what those families will feel when she plunges her sword through their son or daughter’s body. She reminds herself that it’s been done hundreds - no, thousands - of times before her and will continue for centuries after her. It’s inevitable.

There’s no moon in the sky tonight. When she feels like it, she wakes up Pete for guard duty, and goes to lay down next to Claudia. She doesn’t sleep right away, listening to the smaller girl’s breathing.

She wishes that they had more power on their side. That maybe Helena might turn up at some point and fight with them. The other girl hadn’t mentioned anything about joining MacPherson’s ambush, only that she knew about it. She’d only made Myka promise to do something for her when this was all over. Myka doubts that she’ll stay alive long enough to fulfill it.

When she sleeps, she dreams of sisters and siblings and she watches Joshua cry out for Claudia. She sees an echo of the reaping, only this time, Leena’s and Helena’s are prominent in her mind. Leena, who is always calm and collected, who smiles warmly but sadly. Helena, who is strong and sturdy, and yet she looks as though she is about to break. Maybe she is already broken.

Myka sees herself called and she watches herself walk up. Sees the sadness in the audience’s eyes and then she is falling, through the avalanche and down the mountain and out off of the waterfall, plunging into dark, cold water.

Myka opens her eyes, the sky a light blue above her. The morning isn’t as cold as it was last night, even without the heat of Claudia curled up beside her. Her dreams leave her mind as she joins the discussion of their plan.

It’s Claudia who offers to be the distraction. Myka doesn’t audibly argue, but she’s against the idea. Her, Pete, and Leena are to ambush after Claudia has drawn them out and away, then kill as many as they can. It takes a while for them to convince Myka to let Claudia go, and that is only after Leena offers to go with her.

Pete and Myka lie in wait for the other two to circle around and draw them out. It’s only a little while and Myka has to pat Pete on the shoulder to get his attention. They watch Leena and Claudia venture out, capturing the attention of Steve and Sally, who yell to the other two and head toward the threat. Myka leads the way around the back of the Cornucopia and they each take a side.

A cannon booms.

Myka strains to see into the forest when she comes face to face with Marcus Diamond. He stands at six and a half feet, looming over her with a cruel smile. The axe in his hand connects with her sword with a loud echoing sound and soon they are a whirling mess. She lets anger fuel her, ignoring the fact that the sword is too heavy to be comfortable and focusing on the kill. Marcus falls to the ground when she sweeps his feet out from under him, and in the next moment, she’s plunging her sword through his chest.

Her breath catches in her throat as he coughs blood before falling still. A cannon goes off.

She ignores the churning in her stomach. “Pete!” she yells, looking frantically around the open, empty field. She sprints in the direction that she saw Claudia and Leena come out from, only to find Leena’s body just inside the treeline. She takes a shuddering breath, holding her fingers against Leena’s bloody pulse point and finding nothing.

“Pete!” she yells again, following the trail of blood left in the snow. A yell breaks the deathly silence and Myka runs harder. Three cannons go off one after the other.

Myka comes into the small clearing only registering Walter Sykes grappling with Pete, before the Pete makes a gurgling sound and drops to the ground. Myka is frozen, caught with a lump in her throat as Sykes turns on her, blood all down his front. Sally, Steve, and Claudia lay just beyond him, covered in blood and dead. Pete lying in the snow. Dead.

Walter grins at her, the smile not just on his lips but in his gaze, and when she sees the silver blue, she freezes. He steps toward her and she is turning the other direction and running as hard and fast as she can, through the field of the Cornucopia. Checking over her shoulder numerous times, she grabs as many food packets as she can stuff into her bag, trying desperately to control her breathing. Her legs burn as she runs on and on until finally, she finds a tree and climbs.

She lets herself fall apart as she holds onto a branch, letting the tears fall and sobbing into her jacket as the sting of the cold buries itself into her muscles. She ties herself in and lets sleep overtake her.

That night, she doesn’t need to see their faces in the sky because they’re already in her dreams.

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the lateness of the update. And for the content of the update.
> 
> Anyways, I've seen Catching Fire three times and I'm like 110% in love with Johanna Mason, so I forced myself to finish this chapter for you guys. Just so you know, this won't be extending into a trilogy. We'll just say this was well before Katniss and Peeta's games (I think I said 61st in the first chapter).
> 
> But oh gosh. As of now, this is probably the longest thing that I've written and I'm super proud. Thanks again to my awesome beta Karo (tumblr user velmster). Hope you enjoyed reading!
> 
> (Also, just a fun fact I guess, but in the orignal draft for this storyline, I elaborated further into Claudia's diversion. Steve ended up helping them against the Careers. I'd like to think that he did that in this final cut as well.)


	7. lose with eloquence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She doesn’t know where anyone is. She feels cold and useless and wishes for what feels like the millionth time that she was home with her family. Helena had given her an almost impossible task, it seems, something that would require Myka winning at all costs. Myka doesn’t understand nor know what to do with her new fervence, just hopes that it lasts long enough for the other tributes to die.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, sorry for the long absence! Finals are over and I'm estimating that this will get done around February. Another chapter should be up soonish. I found this one kind of hard to squeeze out mainly because it just didn't feel like it was right. You definitely shouldn't have to wait another three weeks for the next one. 
> 
> Also, over my little hiatus, this fic reached over 2k hits and 100 kudos!! I didn't expect it to get this far so for that, thanks to all of you :)
> 
> Oh, and the italics are a flashback.

Myka doesn’t know what to do with herself. She’d lost her bearings while running away from the Cornucopia, thrust back into the unknown forest as unfamiliar it was the first time she’d run into it with Pete.

Pete.

Myka sighs in the early morning, her breath billowing out in front of her. She’d already made her way out of the tree. It was a slow and careful task and she fumbled numerous times, wondering how she’d even managed to climb it last night. From her high perch she’d eventually climbed down, that much obvious from the small scrapes on her hands. Now, sitting in the snow below the tree, she examines them. They sting only slightly when she puts snow on them, but then the relief comes, and she lets herself fall against the trunk of the tree behind her.

She unties her hair and lets it fall in unkempt curls around her head, looking at a few locks that are matted with blood. She remembers the river that they had camped by, wishes she’d had the sense to wash her hair then. She tries getting up, her legs aching. She’s kind of gotten used to it, the hurting. The cold settling in around her is definitely Gamekeeper enhanced; she finds that her coat isn’t helping. She forces herself to think and categorize, eventually coming to a conclusion that if they wanted to kill the tributes by hypothermia it would prove to be very boring entertainment. She supposes that a tribute losing a few fingers is kind of interesting, though.

When she fully stands, a wave of nausea hits her and she doubles over, her stomach heaving. Nothing much comes out before she kicks away a stain in the snow. She walks, tries to discern tribute footsteps but quickly learns that tracking in the snow is futile. The imprints could be days old.

She does inventory. Her sword is still strapped across her chest and her dagger is in her boot. The only things in the bag she has are food packets. She starts to count and stops around twenty, deciding that there must be at least fifty. She knows that she’ll need water eventually, decides that she’ll try and find the river first before resorting to snow.

She walks for as long as she can. She lets herself think about Claudia making jokes during lunch back in the Capitol. About Pete, whom she misses more than she thought she would. She knows that she’d underestimated the whole gist of the hunger games. She’s always thought that it was horrible and wrong, but she’d never let herself get that worked up about it until now. She lets the anger consume her like forest fire and walks with stronger steps, keeping an eye on the area around her.

There hadn’t been any cannons during the day. At nightfall, she climbs a tree and ties herself in and waits for any announcements. She knows that Capital will get bored if there isn’t any action for a while.

Her chest fills with a new motivation that wasn’t there before, swelling inside of her. She can win. She will win. For Claudia. For Leena. /For Pete/.

 

.,.

 

She’s walked for about a mile when she’s ambushed. She’s close enough to the river to hear it, but the forest is quiet before it happens, the only sound coming from her boots crunching in the snow. Suddenly, she hears something to her left, her hand automatically moving to the hilt of her sword. “Come out,” she calls, surprisingly finding herself unafraid. Some part of her seems to have figured that she’s proven herself more than able of defense. She relaxes her stance and waits.

A boy strolls out from behind a tree, a smirk on his face and a knife in his hand. She’s able to place him almost immediately, the fallen snowflakes in his hair reminding her of the silver glitter from the ceremony. James regards her almost with amusement, taking in her sword with a flash of surprise in his eyes. “MacPherson,” she greets, and he raises his eyebrows in response.

“You know me?” he muses. “I don’t believe we’ve met. And you are?” She remembers Helena describing his ruthlessness, remembers how he looked during training. She has to restrain herself from making the first move, anger bubbling up when she remembers how he poisoned Helena. Poison was /weak/. She didn’t take him for the kind to just blindly kill, but she didn’t underestimate him.

“Bering,” she supplies. “District 5.” With a squint in his eyes, he regards her thoughtfully, before reaching slowly for a knife in his boot. One knife per hand, he grins even wider.

She doesn’t miss the way that his eyes roll over her appreciatively while he twirls the blades on his fingers. “I remember,” he says suddenly, his eyes far away as if reminiscing upon fond memory. She takes a moment to think about his own dark colored suit, mind wandering to Helena’s dress. “Yellow dress. Absolutely stunning.”

With both of them armed, she knows the fight will be more than fair. Something in the back of her mind nags at her; he could have an accomplice. There could be someone hiding out right behind her, ready to spring into action if she proves to be vicious. She knows that she can take him, but only if it’s just him. She can’t take her chances with whoever happens to be his companion. She tries to run through in her mind who is left, but she can’t think. Not with him gazing at her, as he most likely imagines how good it will feel to kill her. She imagines that in his eyes, she’s probably the only worthy opponent left.

She lets the tip of her sword bury into the ground a bit, glancing down to watch it disappear into the snow. More snow falls around them, almost serenely, something she hadn’t noticed earlier. A flake lands on the curve of MacPherson’s knife and he flicks it off idly, when she suddenly gets an idea. She looks up at him, watching him lean against a tree as if bored.

“Where’s your girlfriend?” she asks slowly, choosing the words and hoping that they hit home. “You two were inseparable at training. Did you kill her in her sleep?” Her tone mocks, and she watches a flare of irritation cross his face before his lips turn up at the corners. She knows that her words cut the skin.

“I’m afraid that I don’t know who you’re talking about.” His tone is forcefully dull.

“Helena,” she says, her voice taking on a goading quality. She forces a grin. “You know, the girl who was absolutely moony for you? I’m willing to bet that you kissed her as you slit her throat.” Myka’s betting on the fact that his irritation clouds his judgement. She knows from the sky that Helena isn’t dead, but she’s hoping that he won’t catch onto that.

James looks at her steadily, mouth tightening as he tries to figure out what her angle is. “Are you going to make this difficult, Bering? I’d say just let me kill you and get on with it. I really can’t wait until your blood stains that snow. One less between me and victory.” He’s stopped twirling the knives, instead choosing to clench them tightly in each hand.

“Let you?” She raises her sword and gives it an experimental swing. She hopes that he’s at least a little irritated at the way things had gone. She supposes that an irritated opponent is better than a calm and collected one. “I’d like to see you try.”

His mouth twitches, the grin disappearing. With a flick of his wrist, one of the knives whizzes toward her, cutting into her arm as she tries to protect herself, at the same time stepping to one side. She tightens her grip on her sword and looks at him, waiting for him to make a move.

He lunges and suddenly there are two knives where before there was one. She deflects a stab and feels her sword cut into flesh. Her move was clumsy at best, only finding purchase through the material of his coat. When she turns, expecting him to be writhing on the ground, his palm connects with her jaw and she’s knocked into the snow. He takes his time in coming to stand over her, pressing a hand to his side and inspecting the wound. There is only a small amount of blood and he still can move freely. She scrambles on the ground and reaches for the sword that had fallen from her grip.

“Don’t worry about Helena. I eliminated her,” he gloats, stepping on her wrist and prying the sword from her fingers. “Just like I’m going to eliminate you. And just for this,” he points to the gash in his side, not nearly as deep as she’d thought, having just barely cut the skin. “I’m going to make you suffer.” He looks to the woods behind her, as she curls into herself hoping to prevent a kick to her stomach. “Come on out, you. I’d like you to have the first cut.”

MacPherson pulls his foot back and poses as though he’s going to kick her, just as she’d expected, before there’s a loud crack, and he falls to the ground. Myka, breathing hard and cold, freezes. After a moment, she looks up to find a young boy holding a huge, bloody rock. The rock falls from his hands, just barely missing her foot, as MacPherson convulses on the ground. Myka watching him cautiously before sitting up. He continues twitching for a moment, eyes closed and a ring of red snow around his head, before he falls still. A cannon goes off.

The boys takes a few steps back, staggering to the ground as his hands start to shake. Myka makes sure to keep an eye on him as she focuses on her arm, probing the wound to check if it’s clean. When she finally looks up at him, chewing on her lip silently, she finds him with his arms wrapped around his knees and his head between them. She tries to place him, recognizing him after a moment; mainly for the curly brown hair that is like hers except a lot shorter.

“William,” she says pointedly and she sees the boy stiffen. He lifts his head, gaze meeting hers.

“How do you know my name?”

She half-way shrugs, flexing her other wrist, the skin now red from where MacPherson stepped on it. “I remember things well.” She grabs one of James’ knives and cuts some fabric from his coat, wrapping her forearm both comfortably and tightly. They’re both distracted when a hovercraft appears above them, a claw reaching down to scoop up the body. The trees part as the air pressure forces them sideways, the two of them watching as it comes in expertly. Myka makes a grab for the other knife before it’s taken too; then they are engulfed into the silence of the artificial forest once again.

“You mentioned Helena,” the boy says. “Do you know where she is?” Myka categorizes him as a non-threat, seeing as he’d just saved her life. She doesn’t blame him; a small part of her wants to know where Helena is, too.

She shakes her head. She doesn’t know where anyone is. She feels cold and useless and wishes for what feels like the millionth time that she was home with her family. Helena had given her an almost impossible task, it seems, something that would require Myka winning at all costs. Myka doesn’t understand nor know what to do with her new fervence, just hopes that it lasts long enough for the other tributes to die. She hopes that they’ll kill each other before she has to kill them. Something nags at her, telling her that she’ll most likely kill again.

“Her face hasn’t been in the sky, so she’s not dead,” the boy says, and Myka notes a hint of hopefulness that makes her sad.

 

.,.

 

_“A proposition?”_

_Helena gazes at her, eyes dark and clear. She bows her head after a moment, taking a small instance to look sheepish. “I’m not going to win this,” she breathes, her voice low and slightly shaky. “But you could. I can see it in your eyes; you don’t want to lose.”_

_Myka unconsciously bites her lip, tearing her eyes away from the other girl and looking toward the ground. Yes, she doesn’t want to lose, but that doesn’t mean that she’ll win. She’s sure that everyone left in the arena doesn’t want to lose. Who would? “Why me?” she asks again, though she isn’t immediately aware that she’d already asked it. She doesn’t understand why anyone would even try and trust anyone in here. She’d trusted people and they’d trusted her and she’d gotten them / **killed/**._

_“I like to think that I can trust you, Myka.” Hearing the exact words that she doesn’t want to hear pulls at something within her and she frowns. Something about the way Helena says her name makes Myka falter, her brows knitting together in thought. “You’ve had ample chances to kill me and yet you haven’t. Why is that?”_

_“I’d have been killed, probably,” Myka says quietly, not quite believing herself. She feels like the answer is obvious, if not true. “It’s against the rules.”_

_“And so it is for rules to let twenty-three / **kids** / die every year just to remind everyone of a revolution that happened six decades ago? It is the rules that we’re paraded around and celebrated before we’re asked to fight to the death? How is /d **efying that** / against the rules? How is the barbaric practice of - of murder even sanctioned?” Her voice raises as she speaks and she starts to pace, reaching the edge of the clearing and creating a rut in the snow. “It’s disgusting.” She spits into the snow, running a hand through dark hair._

_Myka wishes that she would keep her voice down. The Gamekeepers can release anything on them, anything to shut them up. They won’t want this being broadcasted to the Capitol, no matter how late it was. Someone, somewhere, is seeing them._

_“I loathe them,” Helena is muttering. “They think that they have so much power, but they only have it because they’ve killed, they’ve -”_

_Myka grabs her by the shoulders and holds her still, seeing a wild light in Helena’s eyes. “Be quiet,” she says. “Just - stop talking.”_

_“What does it matter anyway,” Helena says quietly, downcasting her eyes. “I’ll just be dead and next year you’ll be training another child to go and kill. It will never end, Myka…”_

_She loosens her hold on the other girl’s shoulder, but her hands stay. She ignores the heat under them and tries to think of a way out of this. She can’t take Helena back to the camp; Pete wouldn’t trust her for a second. Helena starts to sway a bit._

_“I think… I think that poison might be coming into effect now,” she murmurs. “I’ll be… fine… I think.” Helena slumps to the ground, Myka torn from her thoughts as she realizes there are more pressing matters at hand. She slaps Helena’s cheeks lightly as she girl’s head rolls back and forth. She can’t just… She can’t just / **die** / like this. Myka starts to worry, pressing two fingers to the other girl’s neck. She tries to think of what MacPherson could’ve given her, but nothing comes to mind. A small beeping sound makes her look up into the trees and she watches in confusion as a parachute floats down toward them. She snatches it from the air and opens it, finding a small vial and a note._

Just keep hoping that she won’t kill you. She’s useful. - Artie

_She unscrews the vial’s cap and slaps Helena’s cheeks again. “Come on, Helena,” she mutters, before parting the other girl’s lips and pouring the contents of the vial in. It takes only a second before Helena jolts upright, narrowly missing crashing her head into Myka’s, sputtering with thick coughs. She hits a fist against her own chest as she tries to find a purchase on her breathing. It takes a few minutes before she can breathe fully. She takes a ragged breath, taking the moment to look at Myka._

_“Myka? I thought you… you were…”_

_“I think that MacPherson gave you a paralytic,” Myka says quickly, trying to ignore how close Helena is to her. “You became agitated and your blood flow most likely went faster, letting it spread through you quicker. You collapsed and I got a parachute.”_

_“Why?... Why would you?”_

_Despite her efforts, Myka is consciously aware of Helena being so close that she can feel the other girl’s breath ghosting off her own lips, not to mention clammy hands tightening in hers. Myka slowly smirks, the corner of her mouth twitching upward. “Because you still haven’t told me your proposition, yet. Assuming I win.”_

_Helena’s mood visibly darkens, as she seems to get more lucid. She pushes herself over, slipping her hands from Myka’s, who immediately misses the warmth. Myka doesn’t know what kind of paralytic had been given to her, but obviously it had worked fast. The curious part of her is glad that Artie had sent whatever it was he’d sent because she wants to know what Helena has to say. The worried part of her wonders if she made a mistake._

_“I need you to find someone for me, once you’re out of here,” she says slowly, suddenly very serious and very distant. “My daughter,” she says after a long pause._

_Myka stands still, not visibly reacting to the other girl’s words. She’s just… taking them in. She doesn’t quite know what to say, doesn’t know why Helena is revealing this to the entire world. She watches Helena, who runs another hand through her dark hair, the movement obviously reassuring and contemplative at the same time. When it’s apparent that Myka isn’t going to say anything, Helena opens her mouth again._

_“She… she was born about two years ago. It was right after the Reaping. Of course I was exempt. They didn’t make me put my name in at all, they made me hide the fact that I was even pregnant.”_

_“They?” Myka asks softly._

_“My guardian at the time,” she starts, idly wondering if Caturanga could see them. “I was staying with him. I was a horrible mess after my family died. Once I started missing school the Mayor figured it out. He must’ve alerted the Capitol. God forbid a teenager become pregnant, yes?” Helena falters, dropping to the ground into a crouch. She wraps her arms around her knees. “I hated her a time, but every time she moved inside of me I couldn’t… I couldn’t hate her. And that did nothing to quell the… / **hatred** / I felt when they took her away.”_

_“They didn’t kill her,” Myka says, her voice hollow. She sees Helena shake her head and feels a stab of grief for the other girl. “Helena - They probably -”_

_“No,” Helena growls, her tone fierce before her head snaps up. She glares at Myka. “I refuse to believe that she is…” She stops abruptly. Looking back down at the ground, she shakes her head furiously and when her gaze meets Myka’s eyes again, the taller girl can see tears on the verge of swelling over. “You’ll be unable to participate in the Games if you win. You’ll live your life out in the Victor’s Village and you’ll be / **safe** /. There is no reason for you not to at least / **try** / and get my Christina back.”_

 

.,.

 

Helena supposes that a side effect of the antidote must be fever. That, or something she drank is giving her these horrid chills. After she’d left Myka, she’d stumbled around, her thoughts consumed by her daughter. Somehow, miraculously, she’d found MacPherson, who was packing up their campsite with a rather unwilling Woolly. She watched them and followed them, unseen. Somehow through her feverous stupor she’d managed to keep up with them. That night, she’d watched MacPherson’s anger flash when her face hadn’t been in the sky. And the next day when there had been too many cannons to count, she’d watched the sky almost anxiously, hoping that a certain tribute’s face wouldn’t be revealed.

Everyone she’d associated with Myka was in the sky that night, and Helena idly wondered if the girl was wounded. She had half a mind to try and find her, but she couldn’t tear herself her away from waiting for the perfect moment to kill MacPherson. She’d finally fallen into a deep sleep from exhaustion, deciding to sleep off  her fever and hoping that it would go away. She relived the moment in the woods with Myka up until she’d kissed her and through her subconscious she watched the movement over and over again. The kiss had been short and as the dream progresses, Helena finds herself consciously aware of the way Myka had been pressed against her.

She surges awake to find the sky illuminated with light, and quickly goes to where MacPherson had camped for the night. There’s nothing there except the ashes from there small fire and a few food packet wrappers. She hits her fist against a tree and tightens her jaw. Then, she goes off in search of Myka.

  
  
  
  



	8. heads inside a dream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Do you think that if you win, they’ll give her back to you?” The words are out of Myka’s mouth before she can stop them, before she can even think about what she’s saying. It hadn’t occurred to Helena and that much is obvious from the expression on her face. Myka is suddenly worried that she’s given the other girl an idea, a reason to get rid of her, but she sees Helena shake her head sadly.
> 
> “No. Well, maybe. But honestly,” she says softly, “I’ve already made up my mind to lose.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Turns out, I'm a slower writer than I thought, haha. Hope you enjoy this chapter and quick apology for the length. I'm hoping to get them back to around a consistent 3500 words (or more), but don't quote me on that. 
> 
> Again, huge thanks to Karo! (velmster on tumblr - seriously, go follow her). 
> 
> Hope everyone's winter breaks were awesome!
> 
> (Also, holy crap, this thing is the longest thing that I've ever written.)

Helena dreams of Christina. She dreams of a child almost grown that looks so much like herself. The hair is the same shade of black, the eyes are the darkest shade of brown, and the laugh sounds just like her own. The girl runs circles around her back home in the district and Helena feels a weight lift off her chest when the small hand fits just inside hers.

And when she wakes, she realizes that she has slept most of the day. She brushes the tears from her eyes and sighs into the increasing darkness.

She almost expects to feel something when she sees James’ face in the sky, but nothing comes. There’s no twinge in her stomach or leap of joy. There’s only a cloud of bitterness working its way through her veins to the point where she knows it will never leave. She remembers hearing the cannon earlier, remembers idly wondering who it was and who they were killed by, but the rest of the day was a haze.

She’d been stumbling around for what felt like hours, a fever congesting her whole head. The pounding having only eased when she’d let herself rest. She must’ve slept the whole afternoon.

After the only death of the day is shown in the sky, Helena allows herself to relax. Part of her /knows/ that it had to have been Myka who’d killed him. That, or he’d gotten careless are wandered into Sykes’ grasp. She doubts the latter. She wonders how easy it is for Myka to kill, wonders what kind of person Myka is because she doesn’t feel she has the necessary information to make that judgement.

The other part of her is focused on how lucky she is. The arena is large and she seems to have isolated herself, probably into a corner, until the fever passes. She wants to find Myka desperately, for several reasons, but she remembers passing this tree before she had fallen asleep. She presses her palms against it, letting the bark dig into them and leave impressions. Her gaze, licking over her own skin, wavers a moment as she sways, no matter how desperately she tries to stand completely still.

After a moment, she twists to grab her pack and digs around in it, before pulling out a food packet. She downs it quickly, waiting for the inevitable renewal of energy that comes with the sustenance.

Slumping to the ground, resting her back against the tree, she allows herself to smile. The only good thing about the fever, she supposes, is that she hallucinates Myka almost everywhere. Looking over at a shaft of sunlight breaking through the pine trees, she sees Myka sitting in the snow, her arms around her knees and snowflakes in her hair. She only allows herself to watch the image for a moment, before looking down at her hands, pulling at her own fingers.

She needs Myka to help her. Nothing more.

And yet - while dragging her fingers through the snow around her - she thinks that she’s falling in love. She doesn’t let herself be carried away in the sensation. She ignores the way her lips twitch upward when hallucination Myka looks up at her, bright green eyes intense with curiosity.

“I don’t know,” she says out loud, the words said softly and slowly as though they’ll break the atmosphere the fever has created. She doesn’t understand how love can even exist with minimal contact, but then again, she remembers, she did kiss her. Maybe a simple kiss in the heat of the moment /means something/, but maybe it doesn’t. All she knows now is that she doesn’t want Myka to die. She wants to save Myka more than she wishes, which, she supposes, is good considering that she doesn’t want to win herself.

She looks at the snow in her hand and watches it as it melts, engrossed for maybe five minutes. Finally, she gets up and runs a hand through her hair, not so much a nervous motion as it relieves hair from her face. She pulls the tie from her wrist and wraps it around a thick ponytail of raven hair, making sure that the bind is tight and free from falling into her face.

She pulls out her knives and checks them thoroughly and completely, noticing a small nick in one of them near the handle. Looking around, she looks at the tree she’d just used to sit against and plunges the knife into it sideways, prying off a piece of bark. The piece is almost the size of her hand and she experimentally puts it in her mouth before biting off a small portion. She decides that it could be worse and starts to walk.

 

.,.

 

Her vision is almost clear after she’s walked half of the night. She’s seeing Myka around less and less, and she supposes that it’s a good thing. It helps her focus on finding the /real/ Myka. Her grip on her knife tightens when she hears something off to her right. She presses her back against a tree and lies in wait, just there in the right place. She comes out from behind the tree armed and ready, stopping abruptly when faced with a two familiar faces. Myka and Woolly.

/Myka./

Everything she’d convinced herself of - telling herself that her feelings would fade, that she wasn’t falling in love - melts away, and she can’t help the smile that tugs on her lips because real Myka is /so/ much better than a hallucination. Woolly’s expression matches her own and Helena can tell that he’s resisting the urge to run up and hug her.

Myka looks at her warily and as Helena takes her in, she sees the bloodstains. She sees the weariness in her stance and her eyes. Part of her wants to walk up and hug her, do something to help, while the other part of her would rather not get stabbed. She lets the smile cling a moment longer, before falling into a relatively neutral expression.

“Hello, Myka,” she says slowly, nodding toward the taller girl. She lets her gaze wander again, hoping that the concern doesn’t immediately show on her face when she sees the cut on Myka’s arm, the blood staining her clothes. She wants to ask if it belongs to Myka.

“We were hoping to find you,” the other girl offers and something about the way she says it prevents Helena from hoping for anything more.

Helena, determined to remain elusive, stalks over to the nearest tree and leans against it, forcing her gaze away from Myka’s eyes and to the knife in her hand. “Whyever would you do that?” She looks pointedly at the blood. “It seems like you’ve been able to handle yourself pretty well without me.” Even after a short time of knowing each other, she finds that she knows exactly which buttons to press with Myka.

“I’m not going to kill you,” Myka says, gaze flitting over to Woolly as she ignores Helena’s gaze. “He wanted to find you. So here we are.”

She wants to ask if that’s the only reason Myka will allow her company, but decides against it. She doesn’t trust herself enough to be casual. Not now. She looks at Woolly. “Did you need me for something?”

The boy looks as though he’s going to cry, all teary eyes and sad expression. He shakes his head slowly before wiping at his eyes furiously and letting out a staggering breath. “I didn’t want you to be dead,” he mutters, kicking his foot in the snow as his eyes follow the movement. Helena finds that she has missed him. Only slightly, but it is enough.

“Well,” she says, and his eyes flicker to hers. “I’m here now. And very much alive.” She misses the way Myka languidly takes in a breath, before letting it out even slower, trying to ground herself. She sees Helena and all she can think about is how relieved she is that the other girl is safe.

 

.,.

 

Woolly, fast asleep, snores lightly next to her on the ground. He’s wrapped tightly in his coat, knees curled against his chest. Helena watches the fire, watches the flames lick at the embers and branches eagerly, unaware of Myka’s gaze.

In the firelight, Myka thinks that Helena looks lovely. With raven hair as dark as night and the bright light reflecting in her eyes, Myka thinks that she looks ferocious. She doesn’t understand how the other girl can appear to be both at once. She thinks of herself, hair tied back lazily and clumsily, skin covered with grime and dirt and wonders for what feels like the millionth time how she has such bad luck. She was never very good at the games she used to play with her family. She was never the first one to answer a question in school, even though her answer was always right. She just never voiced it.

“Myka?” She snaps her head up.

“I’m sorry… what?”

Helena smiles lightly and it feels too forced, too fake. “I wondered if you had any siblings.”

“Oh,” she sighs. She’s aware that Helena feels the need to make conversation, but she really /does not/ want to talk about Tracy right now. She doesn’t know what she wants to talk about. “Yeah, I do. She’s older than me.” That’s all she offers and she can see Helena nod in the slightest.

“I had a brother,” Helena says quietly. Myka doesn’t miss the use of past tense and immediately tries to remember another Wells in previous games, but her mind comes up empty. Her confusion must show on her face because Helena shakes her head. “He died from a fever quite a while ago… Shortly after my parents. After he passed… I was reckless and I was without abandon and I…”

“You got pregnant,” Myka supplies mutely and Helena nods.

She runs a hand through her hair, a feeling of utter hopelessness flooding through her enough to spark small tears in her eyes. They don’t fall, only waver a moment before she blinks them away. “Yes,” she answers. “I did.” She crosses her knees and lets her arms fall helplessly into her lap, pulling at her third finger with one hand. “Thank you,” she says quietly.

“For what?” Myka moves her gaze over to the slumbering boy and wonders idly how he’s sleeping so soundly. She has conflicting emotions about him. She doesn’t want someone else to protect… doesn’t want to… fail anyone else.

“For letting me talk.” Myka looks at Helena then and sees /real/ gratitude in her eyes. “It’s… refreshing.”

“Do you think that if you win, they’ll give her back to you?” The words are out of Myka’s mouth before she can stop them, before she can even think about what she’s saying. It hadn’t occurred to Helena and that much is obvious from the expression on her face. Myka is suddenly worried that she’s given the other girl an idea, a reason to get rid of her, but she sees Helena shake her head sadly.

“No. Well, maybe. But honestly,” she says softly, “I’ve already made up my mind to lose.” She doesn’t explain what losing equates because Myka already knows.

Myka feels a twinge of hurt in her chest and wonders how she would feel watching this from home. She wonders if she hadn’t been chosen, how Helena would be acting. “Helena.” The other girl looks at her curiously. “It’s true, then? That you’re…”

“Suicidal? Psychotic? Why, what have you heard about me?” she chuckles, her voice bitter as she spits the words out carelessly while Myka sighs.

“I hadn’t heard anything.” She watches Helena stare darkly at the fire, her shoulders tense. “But from talking to you… You’ve lost all of your fight, Helena.”

For a moment - when Helena looks at her Myka feels like she’s an open book, like Helena can figure out anything she wants with just a glance - for a moment it seems like the other girl is trying to bite back a sharp reply, trying to hold herself back from lunging on her. But the anger in her eyes dies after a minute and she looks at Myka coldly.

She rolls her shoulders. “I’ve nothing else to fight for.”

Something twinges inside Myka again, something different than before. It takes her a moment before she puts her finger on the feeling. She bites it down and buries it twice over, before turning away. Myka settles herself on her side, away from Helena and hopes that in the morning the feeling will be gone. She hopes desperately that the love she’d felt blooming in her chest dies like a flower in the spring frost.

“You’ll take first watch,” she suggests, leaving really no choice to argue.

“Of course.”

 

.,.

 

In the morning, Helena wakes in the soft light to find Myka inches away from her. The other girl is curled into her jacket, hugging the material to her in the artificial cold. She takes a moment to study Myka’s face. Stray curls fall into it and Myka sleepily twitches her nose. Her mouth is parted slightly, her face softened in sleep, with her hands curled together just under her chin. Her eyelashes, dark as the night sky, make a thick, curved fringe on her cheeks. The slight breeze pushes more curls into her face and Helena itches to pull them back and tuck them behind her ear.

Myka’s eyes scrunch up and a faint line of worry appears and Helena does not breathe. Her hand, moving of it’s own accord, reaches up and smooths it, the faintest brush of her thumb against the other girl’s skin. Myka sighs and Helena pulls her hand back like she’s just been burned.

After a few minutes, when it finally seems that Myka is not going to wake up, Helena allows herself more. She allows herself to imagine ghosting her lips against Myka’s slightly parted ones and she imagines holding those hands in her own to keep them warm. Helena reaches up again and lets her thumb brush Myka’s cheek, her hand hovering over the curve of Myka’s jaw. And when Myka stirs she forces herself to stay still.

Myka tenses before opening her eyes. Slowly, her lids lift and she meets Helena’s own dark eyes. They stay like that, for a moment before Helena clears her throat lightly and pulls her hand back. She sits up, looking everywhere but Myka. She listens to the slight scuffle and Myka comes into her peripheral view as the other girl sits up. She follows Myka’s gaze to Woolly, the small boy curled up into a ball.

“Do we have a plan?” Myka’s voice is thick with sleep and Helena finds that she wants Myka to say her name.

“I haven’t one, no.” Helena stands, stretching her arms above her head as far as her jacket allows. She hopes that the sun will offer some kind of warmth for them as she watches her breath billow out in front of her as fog. She wants to apologize for her attitude last night, but decides against it.

“What about him?” It’s obvious who Myka is talking about.

Helena looks over at Myka sharply. “What do you mean?”

Myka means a lot but she doesn’t want to say anything. Not with Helena almost glaring at her. She decides she doesn’t like Helena’s ever-changing emotions. “I just… I don’t know how well I’m going to be able to look after anyone right now.” She doesn’t say that her friends trusted her and she failed them. She doesn’t say that she dreams of Claudia’s laugh and Pete’s jokes every time she sleeps. She doesn’t say that last night she dreamt of several different ways it would be her fault if Woolly died.

She doesn’t say that she would rather he die very far away from her so it couldn’t possibly be her fault.

Helena looks at her carefully and Myka feels like she’s being turned inside out. Helena sighs. “I’ll take care of him,” she says. “You don’t have to worry about it.”

“It’s not that… it’s just.” Myka stops and stares at her feet. It’s a few seconds before her eyes reach Helena’s again. “You’re going to die Helena. He’s going to die. /I/ could die.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Helena repeats flippantly, standing her ground. “I can deal with that myself.”

“I don’t want you to,” Myka breathes. “You… you shouldn’t have to deal with that at all,” she amends, hoping that Helena didn’t take it the way she meant it, that she doesn’t want Helena to die.

“I don’t really have much of a choice, do I?” Helena says bitterly, venom in her tone, though she regrets it instantly.

Myka shrugs. “Fine.” She steps around Helena to go over to the bags. “What do I care?” she mutters.

“Myka -”

Myka lifts up her hands when Helena tries to grab her arm, shrugging out of her grip harshly. Helena clicks her tongue as she watches the other girl stubbornly avoid her gaze and go through the bag.

“Myka, you’re being childish.”

“Childish?” Myka whorls on her, fury etched into her face. “I am sixteen years old and I’m responsible for the deaths of seven people! And you think I’m being /childish/? I’ve been forced to grow up faster than anyone I’ve ever met.” She goes to step around Helena again, ignoring the feeling of regret when Helena stumbles backwards as she brushes past. The anger pulsing through her dies when she hears Helena’s voice.

“Myka, stop.” She does. She stares at the tree in front of her, listening to Helena’s footsteps. The other girl grabs her wrist and pulls lightly and she follows the movement, turning around.

“I can’t, Helena. This is too much to deal wi -”

Helena cuts her off with a kiss. It’s nothing like their first one, the one that Myka barely remembers. Something about this, though - Myka knows that it will be hard to forget. Helena’s lips burn into hers for a moment before they’re gone and Myka feels too cold. Helena rests her forehead against the taller girl’s and grabs one of Myka’s hands, thumb brushing the top of it. Helena moves to kiss her again after a moment and Myka backs away, almost stumbling, shaking her head as if just now regaining her senses.

“No,” she says shakily. “We’re not doing this. We /can’t/ do this.”

Helena regards her carefully, her head shaking in the slightest movement. “It’s already done.”


	9. you won't get me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The breeze ruffles her hair and she absentmindedly pulls at a few curls. More purposefully, she unties her dirty hair and runs her fingers through it. She meticulously pulls out all of the tangles before tying it up again, sure that all of it is out of her face. The movement is comforting, reminds her of sitting in her room in the mornings and doing exactly what she just did. She remembers her mother hopelessly trying to brush out her curls and just making her hair a tangled mess.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, thanks for reading! Beta'd by the amazing Karo (tumblr user velmster).

There are five of them left.

Myka sits in the early morning chill and digests this, looking around at her companions. Three of them here, that means Walter Sykes is out roaming around looking for blood (preferably /her/ blood, she reminds herself) and Adwin Kosan is, too. She doesn’t want to think about them working together because she feels as though that will leave the three of them with no chance. She remembers Kosan in training, picking up huge objects like it was literally nothing. Tall, silent and brooding, he stood out from the others. Part of her knows that he’s too smart to team up with Sykes. The other part of her doesn’t trust her own judgment.

The breeze ruffles her hair and she absentmindedly pulls at a few curls. More purposefully, she unties her dirty hair and runs her fingers through it. She meticulously pulls out all of the tangles before tying it up again, sure that all of it is out of her face. The movement is comforting, reminds her of sitting in her room in the mornings and doing exactly what she just did. She remembers her mother hopelessly trying to brush out her curls and just making her hair a tangled mess.

Myka looks around their small camp, gaze settling on Helena and reminding her of everything that happened yesterday.

She decides that she’s angry at Helena in that moment. Helena, who is sleeping innocently on the opposite side of the fire (Myka hadn’t missed the way the other girl had made a point of staying as far away from Myka as she could last night), who infuriates her so much. Logically, from the way the other girl is breathing, Myka knows that she’s awake. There are so many things to say, but Myka is stubborn and doesn’t want to be the one to say them.

Instead, she sets about thinking of how she’s going to make herself win this. She sees but chooses to ignore Helena when she gets up and stretches, missing the way that Helena’s eyes linger on her for a moment, before she goes to get a sip of water. Helena absently notices the squish of mud under her boots as she looks around the forest, trying to discern if there are any threats.

She looks back over at Myka, whose eyes are screwed shut. The girl sits with her elbows on her knees and her hands laced together around the back of her neck. Her forehead just slightly rests forward and Helena can’t help the flutter in her chest. She resists the urge to go over and hug her. After a moment though, she walks over and settles down next to her, careful to keep a fair distance between them, before running a hand through her own hair when Myka doesn’t show that she’s even felt her presence.

“Morning,” she says lightly, hoping not to startle Myka out of whatever thoughts she’s in.

The other girl slowly retracts herself, letting her knees fall into a crossed position. She looks over at Helena and the older girl can’t read the emotion in her eyes. “Hey.”

“What are you thinking about?” She hopes her tone conveys curiosity and not desperation.

“How we’re going to find Sykes and Kosan.” Helena hadn’t necessarily expected Myka to not be thinking about the implications of yesterday morning. Myka draws a finger through the combined snow and mud on the ground in front of her. “Do you have any ideas?”

Helena takes it as a positive that Myka is talking to her. “We could let the Gamemakers push us,” she suggests, remembering past years. “Once everything gets a little too boring they usually throw some excitement in,” she says bitterly. “Like mutants or natural disasters.”

“Already threw a freakin’ avalanche at -,” Myka cuts off as Helena studies her profile, “me,” she finishes, clearing her throat. Helena realizes that she doesn’t know much about Myka’s time in the arena from the beginning. She wonders if there were other allies.

“Myka.” Helena’s voice is quiet and she’s careful to broach the subject lightly. “Were you alone in here before?”

“No.” Myka turns from her and Helena feels the doors of open communication closing. The one word response is enough for it all to fall into place. Helena understands the bitterness and the caution and the hurt in Myka’s eyes that she wants to soothe so badly. She reaches over and puts a hand on Myka’s arm. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault,” Myka shrugs and Helena wants so very badly to hear the whole story.

“It’s not yours either.”

“Whatever,” the other girl dismisses. Myka’s shoulders are tense and Helena doesn’t want to push. Not after yesterday. “So, what kind of stuff can they throw at us?” Myka asks, hoping for a nice clean cut in the conversation.

Helena gives her one. “All kinds of mutants. Those are probably the ones we need to look out for.” Helena can practically see the gears in Myka’s mind working, thinking of a way to win this, to get out. Helena vaguely wonders if Myka has thought about what will happen when there’s only the two of them left.

“It’s too dangerous,” Myka says, with a hint of desperation lacing her tone.

“I could be the distraction. Give you more time.”

Myka scoffs. “/That’s/ not happening. Ever.” She turns away from Helena as Claudia’s smiling face comes into her mind, the small girl echoing the same words and Myka never seeing her again. Myka wipes at her eyes.

Helena doesn’t attempt to carry on the conversation, instead letting herself get lost in the feeling of this being over. Of finally being free. A warmth floods through her as she sits there in the mud. She looks up toward the artificial sky, a breeze washing over her. It takes her a moment before she realizes it’s warm. She glances around and sees the snow has melted into mud and there is water dripping from the trees. She wants to know what the Gamemakers are planning.

“Myka,” Helena starts cautiously. “What will happen if we’re the last two left?”

Myka laughs darkly, not turning to look at her. “What will happen if we get ourselves killed and William is the winner? What if I never make it out of here?”

Helena doesn’t respond. She’s decided that she doesn’t like Myka when she’s defensive. She knows the implications of Myka losing. Knows that there’s no hope for finding her daughter. She’s surprised when she realizes that she cares about the fact that Myka will be gone as well. Part of her wants to wrap her arms around Myka and never let go, while the other part wants to go and find Sykes and take care of him so Myka can be free of this. Helena likes that plan because then she’ll be free, too.

“I’m sorry,” Myka says at last. “That was uncalled for.” She sighs. “What are we going to do?”

Helena scoots closer to her. “I’m sure we’ll think of something.”

 

.,.

 

At some point, Myka falls asleep. Helena is content with watching her. They’d moved their camp to higher ground earlier, so there was less mud and more rock. Everything is still wet, though, and Helena finds that she can take off her jacket and sit comfortably. Woolly is up and about, meandering around to investigate their surroundings. He doesn’t talk much to her, only sending worried glances in her direction as though he feels like she’s going to disappear. She gives him reassuring smiles that don’t quite reach her eyes.

She busies herself with the arena and how everything is melting. From what she knows, the arena is a valley sided with two mountains. And running through the middle of it is the river. She supposes that the river is overflowing, making it impossible to cross, due to the excess groundwater. Something clicks in her mind. /They’re isolating us/. She reasons that must mean that the other two tributes are on this side of the river.

She asks herself what she would do, if she were in Walter’s place. If she wanted to win no matter what.

/I’d want them to come to me/.

Her mind starts moving a mile a minute, plotting out plans and traps and -

She stops when she hears a sharp sound. She glances over at Woolly, who sits beside the fire warming his hands up. Myka is still lying next to the rock she’d chosen hours ago with Helena’s jacket tucked around her. Helena looks back out into the forest, eyes straining while she slowly reaches for her knife. The piercing sounds come again. Finally, Helena glimpses movement weaving between the trees. It’s fast, agile, and cannot possibly be human.

She spins around, running over to Myka. She leans down and shakes the girl’s shoulders. “Myka. Myka, wake up!” She pulls the half asleep girl to her feet before grabbing the backpack on the ground. Woolly looks at her with wide eyes. “Mutts,” she hisses and Myka snaps from sleep immediately.

And Helena starts to run. As she does, the air somehow feels colder than is has felt the past few days. It reminds her of when she would run in the morning hours after she woke up. The adrenaline fueling her feels too familiar. She focuses on placing her feet on dry spots of the ground as the sound comes again and again, at different pitches and volumes. She realizes that there is definitely more than one.

Myka is on Helena’s heels and Woolly’s hand is tight in her own. She pulls him along as the pounding of what sounds like hooves follow after them. The sharp, piercing noise is loud and rings in Myka’s ears. She doesn’t dare look back at them, whatever they are, and only focuses on going forward, going straight and away. Her heart pounds in her ears as Helena leads the way, with Myka wondering how the other girl moves impossibly fast even with a stocked backpack strapped to her shoulders.

Woolly screams as he falls, as he trips on a rock or something and his hand is pulled from Myka’s.

“Helena!” Myka yells because the other girl’s black hair is already disappearing into the trees and Myka is crouching down to help Woolly. He’s clutching his ankle and before Myka can move to help him up she’s knocked off her feet. The sharp sound ricochets through her head and it’s a million times louder when the mutts are so close. She screams when something tears through her shoulder but her own sounds are being drowned out by Woolly. Her mutt goes over to join the four already on him

Myka gets up shakily and grits her teeth in pain when Helena pulls her up by looping an arm under Myka’s shoulder. She leans heavily against the other girl and Helena assesses her shoulder. “Shit,” Helena breathes, before wrapping an arm around Myka’s waist and pulling her along.

Myka pulls out of her grip. “I’m - I’m fine…,” she pauses as Woolly screams again. “I’ll be right behind you,” she assures Helena and she thinks that she sees unshed tears in the other girl’s eyes. With one last glance at Woolly and a glance at the sky when the cannon goes off, Helena is running through the trees again, this time with Myka’s hand tight in her own.

They run as long as they can and Myka ignores the fuzziness at the edge of her vision. In front of them, the shadow of other trees vanishes and it takes her a moment to find her voice. “Wait, stop -”

Helena runs through the brush and off the cliff.

Myka grabs a tree with her good arm before she can think about it. There’s a sharp twist of pain in her shoulder as Helena’s grip tightens. Myka braves a look over the edge and sees Helena, breathing heavily with wide eyes. She can feel Helena’s grip weaken and she knows that she can’t pull her up with her bad arm. “Okay,” Myka says, mostly to herself. “Okay. I’m going to…”

Helena, despite her eyes, speaks in a calm voice. “Yes?”

“I’m going to pull you up.” Helena stares at her and Myka hopes with every ounce of her soul that this works. “I’m going to wrap leg around this tree,” she says slowly. “And then I’m going to bring my other hand and I’m… I’m going to pull you up.”

Helena nods and Myka slowly tucks her leg around the tree. She releases her grip just as slowly. “Can you… Maybe try and find a handhold?” Myka bites out, fighting the pain searing through her shoulder.

“I think.” The moment Helena’s grip is gone from her arm she looks over the side. She finds Helena having moved to a handhold in the side of the ravine. Myka allows herself to look past Helena and at the dark rushing water below.

“Okay,” Myka says again. She reaches down with her good arm. “Now, just… just grab my hand.” She’s trying desperately to keep her voice steady.

“Okay,” Helena echoes, looking at her outstretched hand warily. And a moment later, Helena’s hand is clutching hers once again. She lets out a small breath of relief, before starting to pull the other girl up. She vaguely registers the sharp sounds of the mutants in the distance. She tightens her leg around the tree and helps Helena get a foothold to push herself up.

And Helena’s hand slips. Myka doesn’t even have time to scream before Helena is plunging into the black water below and is gone.

Myka feels utterly alone.

 

.,.

 

Myka doesn’t hear a cannon.

She ignores the tears blurring her vision and she ignores the pain of her shoulder and continues along the side of the river, trying desperately to see if she can see Helena. The only thing propelling her is the fact that the cannon hasn’t gone off. A small part of her thinks it’s because the Gamemakers can’t see the tribute anymore than she can, but a bigger part, the part filled with hope, thinks that it’s because they can see her just fine. That they can see that she’s alive.

Clouds had moved in since the beginning of the afternoon and the sun is gone. The water is murky and dark and she can’t see under the surface. She walks until she can barely feel her feet and eventually she ends up near the little waterfall where she’d camped with Pete and Claudia. She goes into the small cave and sets up a fire like nothing’s happened. She does it methodically, taking only small breaks to not move her shoulder for a while.

She goes back out into the later afternoon and sits down on a rock. She tugs at the strap across her chest and idly wonders how the sword made it through everything. Over the water, she strains to hear the chirps of the mutants but cannot. After a while of sitting and gritting her teeth from pain occasionally, she realizes that she’s not wearing her own coat. It’s Helena’s.

It renews her determination to find the other girl, dead or alive. She figures that she owes her that. She starts walking through the shallow water, knowing that eventually Helena has to wash up somewhere around here. She notices the lack of fish and feels a low rumble in her stomach. And she spots something. She walks quickly to the little alcove and reaches down, pulling out a waterlogged backpack. She snaps her head up and looks around desperately. “Helena?”

Upon hearing no response, she digs around in the bag and pulls out a food packet, ripping it open with her teeth and downing it quickly. She takes the small path back to the cave and stores the bag inside. If the bag showed up, Helena has to be here somewhere.

She searches for hours, walking upstream and downstream. She returns to the cave and is going to give up when she sees her. Or at least, she thinks she does. It’s only a black something floating in the water but Myka rushes toward it nonetheless. She can’t help the sob that cracks out of her when she realizes that it /is/ Helena. She pushes through the water and grabs the other girl, pulling her onto the rocks. Helena’s skin is paler than usual and her lips are blue, but Myka can feel a pulse.

She presses her hands on Helena’s chest and pushes, doing her best to remember the times she’d read about the correct CPR techniques. She presses her lips to Helena’s cold ones and breathes for her. She repeats the motions until Helena suddenly coughs, water overflowing out of her mouth. Myka helps her sit up and rubs her back reassuringly as the older girl gags. Myka pulls Helena to her and doesn’t let go until her name is mumbled into her curls.

“C-c-cold,” Helena says quietly, trying to hide her violent shivers. Myka helps her up, checking for any abnormality in her steps that might indicate injury. They make their way slowly back to the cave and when they’re inside, Myka starts to pull off Helena’s wet clothes. She leaves only the most necessary coverings and quickly gives Helena her own warm, dry clothing. She helps Helena settle next to the fire and wraps her arms around Helena’s shoulders.

They stay like that for quite a while, Myka’s hand moving up and down on Helena’s shoulder until she stops shaking. She’s reminded painfully of her shoulder when she makes a movement that sets it off again. She doesn’t want to look at it and doesn’t spend much time thinking about it, instead thinking of Helena.

The girl slumps against her, exhausted. “That was quite dreadful, wasn’t it,” she murmurs into Myka’s neck.

Myka adjusts them so they’re laying down and Helena is in her arms. She wants to agree, she wants to say how fucking scared she was, but she keeps her mouth shut. Instead, she says, “That’s an understatement.”

Helena turns in her arms so they’re face to face and her back is to the fire. “I’m sorry,” she says.

“Why are you apologizing?” Myka is close enough that Helena can feel the other girl’s breath on her lips.

“If I hadn’t asked you to… None of this would have happened,” she explains. Myka resists the urge to touch her face, trace the curve of her jaw.

Myka shakes her head slightly, before deciding to change the subject. “Are you warm?”

Helena grins at her, her smile worn and tired. “Quite. Thank you.” Myka nods like it’s nothing but it’s obviously not nothing because Helena’s head comes closer and so do her lips. She stops just shy of kissing Myka.

“Helena,” Myka breathes, a hint of warning in her tone.

“Is this okay?” Helena looks at her with hooded eyes and Myka is consciously aware of the shared body heat between them. “Myka… Can I kiss you?”

She wants to say no because this should be a private moment and she has no doubt that there are multiple cameras catching this moment. She can’t find her voice and only nods.

Helena’s lips are cool and they are precise. The older girl’s hand curls around Myka’s neck and pulls her impossibly closer and Myka realizes this is the first kiss that she wants to count. It isn’t desperate, it isn’t rushed. Myka kisses Helena back before hugging Helena tightly. She feels Helena laugh against her; it’s a relieved sound. She feels Helena’s breath hot on her neck and the tension melt away from Helena’s shoulders.

“I like kissing you,” Helena whispers, but she could be yelling for how close her mouth is to Myka’s ear.

“Me, too,” Myka admits and she realizes there’s something freeing to finally saying it aloud. So she kisses Helena again.

  
  



	10. close our eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Myka had been alone when she’d awoken, while every other time, Helena had been there, either sleeping beside her or pressing a cool cloth to her face. /Helena had been there/.
> 
> And now she’s not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Be prepared, this chapter is definitely shorter than the others. Beta'd by Karo! (velmster on tumblr).
> 
> Also, thanks again for the wonderful feedback I've been getting about this story.

After a while, once Helena’s breathing has evened out, Myka gets up to stretch. She lets out a low hiss when her shoulder stings in the open air. She kicks at the fire and wishes that there was some sort of light to allow her to examine the wound before settling for slowly prodding around tender flesh. She rests her back against the cave wall across the fire from a sleeping Helena, stifling the sounds of pain coming from deep in her throat as she assesses her injuries. She’s glad that it’s her left shoulder if anything, so she’d still be able to wield her sword if needed.

She looks over at Helena, the girl buried in both of their coats and just a tuft of black hair sticking out from under them. She remembers how scared she was and even though she doesn’t want to think about it, her mind wanders to wonder how they’ll both make it out alive. It’s a direction of thinking that has been plaguing her more and more and now she can’t see another alternative. She doesn’t know how she’s supposed to just put the arena behind her and forget Helena. Even Christina, whom she’s never seen but guesses is Helena’s spitting image, will be a constant reminder if she manages to procure her from the Capitol. She ignores the image that pops up of a dead little girl.

Maybe while Helena is still recovering, she can sneak away and win. She could go after Sykes and slit his throat for what he did to her friends and she could weed out Kosan and she could - she could win.

“I love you,” she says out loud, her voice steady. She says it again, enjoys the way it feels coming out of her mouth. She gets up and walks over to Helena, settling down beside her once again. She grabs one of Helena’s hands, painfully remembering when it had previously been freezing cold, and kisses it, whispering those three words again and again against the other girl’s skin.

 

.,.

 

Nothing too exciting happens over the next few days. They stay in the cave, eat only dried food and some berries Myka finds the next morning after Helena’s disaster. Helena is slowly able to move around and take off her coat without her teeth chattering. Myka gets considerably worse and she knows it, but it’s easy to hide it when she wears her jacket most of the time, even when the air is warm.

Three days after Helena almost drowned, Myka sleeps next to her soundly. Helena comes to awareness slowly, breathing in the unfamiliar but comfortable scent of Myka’s skin. In the low light, she opens her eyes and spends a few moments looking at the outline of Myka’s profile. The fire had long since gone out earlier in the night, the pile of sticks now reduced to ash. The chill of the air does nothing to quell the heat radiating from Myka’s body and as Helena fully awakens, she realizes what that means. She puts a hand on Myka’s burning cheek and cannot help the small exhale of breath that falls from her lips. She presses her ear to Myka’s chest and widens her eyes when she hears the shallow breaths.

After carefully extracting herself from Myka’s side and kneeling next to the younger girl, Helena bends over her as she pulls back the left side of Myka’s coat. The fabric is sticky with blood and Helena shakes her head as the wound is revealed, refusing to admit to herself that it’s bad. She feels the skin methodically, feeling several cuts and one long wound that is very deep. She wonders how Myka lasted this long without bleeding out. Helena remembers the brief first aid instruction she had received upon arriving in the Capitol and leans in, taking a deep breath before pulling back when she breathes in the smell of infection.

Helena places her hands on either side of Myka’s face. “Myka,” she whispers, making sure that her voice doesn’t break. “Myka, darling. You must get up.”

When Myka makes a small sound of protest, Helena’s heart leaps into her chest. A small part of her had been worried that Myka had fallen into a coma or worse, had died. “Yes, yes,” she continues. “Please, Myka.” She doesn’t attempt to hide the desperation from her voice.

The girl doesn’t move further and without thinking, Helena reaches over and grabs the bottle of water, twisting the cap off and pouring all of it on Myka’s face. The girl on the ground sputters, suddenly surging into a sitting position before wincing. Helena watches as she glances down at her shoulder before abruptly turning away. She doesn’t meet Helena’s eyes, though Helena waits for an explanation. She can’t even pretend to be angry that Myka didn’t tell her because the flood of relief washing through her is enough to quell it.

Myka finally looks at her. “It was one of the mutts. I don’t really remember because it happened so fast and then you…” Myka gestures to her wordlessly and Helena remembers. “... I think it happened when I tried to grab William…”

Helena nods, taking in the faraway look in Myka’s eyes. Leaning forward and grabbing Myka’s hands, Helena kisses the top of the girl’s head while her thumbs rub the inside of her wrists. “You’re okay,” she murmurs. Myka nods in her arms before reaching over to grab the other bottle of water. She gulps it down quickly and afterwards, Helena helps her lie down again, making sure to place one of the coats comfortably underneath her. Without thinking, she presses a kiss to Myka’s forehead and smooths her hair.

“It’s hot,” Myka croaks, smacking her lips as if tasting the air. Helena places a hand on her cheek again, wondering how in minutes Myka feels impossibly warmer.

“Would you like me to help you outside?” Helena’s voice is scarcely audible over the waterfall, but Myka hears her.

“Mm, no.” She closes her eyes. “Stay with me.”

“Of course, darling,” Helena says immediately, easing herself onto the ground next to Myka. Her body still aches from being thrown around in the river and she still has yellowing bruises everywhere to show for it. She lays an arm around Myka’s middle and the girl sighs into her arms. “Of course.”

 

.,.

 

Later, Helena is drawn awake by her own internal clock. She checks Myka first, the temperature of the girl’s skin not appearing to have changed. After she gets up, she cuts a small part from her sleeve off and walks to the edge of the cave to soak it with cold water. She goes back to Myka and carefully places the cloth into the wound, hoping that sleep is enough to mask the pain. Myka makes a small whimpering sound but doesn’t wake up.

She cleans the wound slowly and thoroughly; stopping for instances when Myka makes sounds of discomfort. Helena ducks under the waterfall and goes into the night, soaking up the warmth. The weather in the arena is impossible to predict anymore. She runs a hand through dark hair, now loose and free of tangles. Something itches at the back of her mind, something tells her to go and finish this games. To win on her own but, almost achingly, she turns back toward the entrance to the small cave. She can’t leave Myka to die. She is beyond not wanting to admit that she cares about this girl enough to die for her.

She drops to her knees to wash the blood from the cloth, soaking it once again with cool water. That’s when the trumpets sound, loud and impossible to ignore all around her. Looking up, she watches as the sky flashes momentarily before Caesar Flickerman’s voice booms.

“61st Hunger Games tributes! I am delighted to announce a feast for you! Every tribute needs something, some more than others, and the Gamemakers have presented it to you! Your items are waiting for you at the Cornucopia. This is not mandatory, but for some, it is life or death. Happy Hunger Games!”

Helena feels sick. She knows exactly what is at that feast. For her, medicine for Myka and for others, probably food. She’s conflicted, torn between wanting to help Myka and knowing that Sykes is waiting for one of them to venture out. From what she knows of fevers, she knows that unless Myka’s breaks soon, she won’t get better. Sitting down on a rock, she remembers how torturous it was watching her parents and brother die. It had been so slow and completely expected, though the district hospital wanted nothing to do with them. They isolated them in their own home, and Helena, having been immune, had to watch her father die first, her mother shortly after, and Charles a few weeks after that. Helena had wished that she could have just gotten the disease and died away with the rest of them.

She leans down and splashes the water onto her face, wanting to cleanse her mind of the memories. She finishes soaking the piece of cloth and finds Myka still asleep. She presses the wet garment gingerly to the girl’s forehead. “Sweet girl,” she breathes quietly.

She bends over and kisses Myka, lingering a moment to savor the taste of Myka’s lips. She makes the decision to leave, simply because she cannot sit idly and watch Myka waste away. She sheds her own jacket and places it next to the girl in case the fever breaks and she needs it later on. She fills the two water bottles and leaves them within arm’s reach. Her fingers itch to leave a note, to leave /something/. She stares at Myka, finding the girl’s hand and rubbing her thumb over the back of it.

If she doesn’t make it back, she’ll be sure to eliminate Myka’s competition and Myka will win. If she does make it back, the medicine will keep Myka alive. Either way, she reasons, Myka gets out.

“I love you,” Helena whispers before she has time to think about the words. And soon she’s out of the cave, moving silently through the night and searching for blood.

 

.,.

 

It’s increasingly frustrating when Myka tries to get up but can’t. Her muscles don’t respond when she attempts to move, screaming in absolute protest. Everything /aches/ and burns so much and she finds herself gritting her teeth while she lies completely still. At most, she can manage to move her arms around. She can also reach the water that’s by her side and she gulps it down appreciatively.

Light filters in through the curtain of water on the far side of the cave and Myka hopes that Helena is just on the other side of it. Taking in the cave around her, part of her knows that everything has been laid out too intentionally, too clearly for her to see, for Helena to be out for a leisurely stroll. The other part of her registers the fact that she’s very sick and panicking will only make it worse.

She works slowly and flexes her arms and legs, realizing that while everything hurts, her stomach hurts the most. Eventually, she’s able to cross her legs and sit upright. She soon finds that she’s not completely weak, just slightly undernourished and very tired. With the help of the wall, she’s able to get onto her feet and take a few tentative steps. The space of the cave is chilly and she reaches down for the jacket discarded on the ground. She pauses when she sees there are two, one she must’ve been using as a pillow. A little unsuccessfully, she tries to convince herself that it means nothing. She wraps the coat around her shoulders, careful to avoid the seeping wound on her left shoulder.

She rummages through the backpack to find two of the daggers missing. Glancing around, she sees that her sword sits tucked in the corner. Her heart starts to race. Myka had been alone when she’d awoken, while every other time, Helena had been there, either sleeping beside her or pressing a cool cloth to her face. /Helena had been there/.

And now she’s not.

 

.,.

 

It’s well into mid-morning when Helena can finally see the Cornucopia, the silver reflecting the daylight through the trees easily.The clearing around it is completely void of snow and the ground is mushy. After taking a moment to look around, Helena scales a tree quickly to survey the surroundings. She can’t spot anyone but she knows that he’s out there somewhere, waiting. She knows that eventually someone will have to make a move.

She climbs down from her perch and arms herself. While her muscles ache from earlier, her determination for Myka’s success is what fuels her, urging every step forward. She takes a moment to observe the area around her before falling into a sprint toward the large metal Cornucopia. The low sunlight glints off its shiny exterior and she slows when she nears the back of it. Her feet slosh noisily through the waterlogged ground and she finds that her boots are soaked through. Glancing around at the flooded ground, she knows that there wasn’t enough snow for this and dismisses it as a Gamemaker’s trick..

Idly, almost at the back of her mind, she wonders how long they’ve been in the arena. She places a hand against the cool surface and guesses around a month. She tightens her grip on the handle of her dagger and eases her way around the structure. Inside of it, there’s a table with one bag on it. It has “one” written on it in big letters and Helena feels her heart sink.

Whatever bag had been there, whether it had been labeled with five or two, is gone, while Walter Sykes’ bag sits unattended. Crossing over to the table, she tears it open roughly, barely biting back the anger in her throat, letting loose a small growl of frustration. She hits her fist against the table.

Later, she curses herself for not thinking of the obvious. The idea that it could be a trap doesn’t occur to her until it is too late. Sykes breathes a “Goodnight, Wells” on the back of her neck and hits her squarely in the back of the head, hard enough for her vision to go black and her body to tumble to the ground.

 

.,.

 

Myka has everything packed up and she cave looks as uninhabitable as it had when she’d first laid eyes on it. With the weight of the bag and the energy required to walk a few steps, she needs to sit down often. She thinks it’s extremely annoying. She doesn’t know where she’s going, only that she has to find Helena.

Bringing her out of her thoughts, the arena falls into darkness where the sun had previously been just about to peak in the sky. Myka looks up from her perch on a large rock, just as the artificial sky is illuminated with an image: Sykes, standing near the Cornucopia, just barely under the cover of the forest.

She imagines him standing and talking to an unseen camera stuck in a tree. He grins right through her and the expressions makes her fist clench. “I do hope you’re seeing this, Five,” he says after a moment, reaching forward to tap the bark around where he thinks the camera is. “My sponsors were extremely generous, donating a lot of money for this to be possible… Anyway,” he pauses, smirking. “Though you’d like to know that our competition is mostly gone.” The image flips to another camera and is zoomed in on Helena’s unconscious face, Myka’s breath catching in her throat when the girl’s lids flutter slightly.

Myka stares at the sky as her heart starts to pound, blood thundering in her ears loud enough to make Sykes’ next words see like a whisper.

“Listen,” Sykes continues with a glint in his eye. “I just want to win this thing, you know? If you come to me, I’ll make both of your deaths quick and easy. You try and fight your way through this or you make me come and find you, I’ll make sure that before she dies, Miss Wells here feels the worst pain imaginable.” He grins, again, and chuckles darkly. “Give the folks at home a little show.”

He winks at the camera before the image clicks off, plummeting the arena into darkness once again. The black is so absolute that Myka feels the light isn’t going to return anytime soon. She gropes blindly for something to sit on and with a shaky breath, she faints.

 


	11. now i refuse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She doesn’t take it. “Why didn’t you…?” She knows he knows what she’s talking about.
> 
> His hand falls back to his side and he looks conflicted. “Look, the way I figure, it’ll be easier to kill that son of a bitch if you’re helping me. We can kill the girl, too,” he offers, judging her reaction carefully. “Let’s both agree that we get rid of the competition and then we’ll duke it out. All right?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, sorry.  
> Second, thanks to Karo again!  
> And third, thank you for reading. Seriously. And for giving kudos. You guys are amazing.

Myka wakes when she feels gentle fingers prying her lips open and a cool liquid sliding down her throat. She can’t control how she automatically stiffens and shortly after she feels the fingers retreat. She keeps her eyes closed, even as she hears someone move away. The day’s events race through her mind and she shivers, groaning softly as the reality of her headache comes into focus. She remembers her dream, of Helena brushing her hair off of her sweat covered skin. She remembers soft kisses pressed to her hairline and now, when she opens her eyes, she half expects it to be true. That Sykes was a dream and that Helena is still sitting next to her.

Looking around, she knows that the ground is too cold and the fingers that had been there were too calloused to be Helena’s. Her eyes meet Adwin Kosan’s as he regards her cautiously, like she’s some stray animal about to attack. There isn’t any fear in his eyes, just hesitation. After a moment, he reaches forward and she sees something in his hand: a small silver vial.

Panic comes in waves, washing over her completely as he looks at her calmly, intense eyes taking her in. Adwin Kosan is bigger than she remembered. To her right, the fire flickers and cracks. She reaches forward slowly and takes the vial from his hand, turning it over in her hands. A few feet away, she notices, is a black bag with the number five on it.

Eventually, Kosan moves to add sticks to the burning flames. Myka sits up and crosses her legs, clasping her hands together in her lap, as she hopes he doesn’t notice that she minutely moved away from him. After a few moments of staring into the fire, Kosan glances at her, firelight reflecting in his eyes.

“Did you see the announcement?”

She nods.

“The second one or the first one?”

The confusion must be evident on her face because the corner of his mouth upturns. “Thought as much.”

She tries being indignant, scoffing lightly under her breath, but the pain radiating through her head makes the sound come out less confident than she feels. She takes a second to try and recall what happened before she blacked out. “Sykes… he has,” she starts, pausing to wonder if she could convey her actual closeness with Helena. “The girl from two,” she continues. “Right?”

He looks at her, almost as if his gaze goes right through her and somehow she knows that he doesn’t believe her little act. She shifts uncomfortably under his scrutiny. “That was the second one,” he explains at last. “The first one was an invitation to a feast. I happened to be closest to the Cornucopia when it came, so I grabbed mine, yours, and that girl’s bags.” He gestures and she once again registers the black bags, just the hint of the number two showing on the bottom side of one of them. “There was medicine or something in yours, so I gave it to you.”

She opens to ask something more, but he cuts her off, getting up to offer her a hand over the small fire. “C’mon let’s go before he gets bored and cuts off one of her fingers.”

She doesn’t take it. “Why didn’t you…?” She knows he knows what she’s talking about.

His hand falls back to his side and he looks conflicted. “Look, the way I figure, it’ll be easier to kill that son of a bitch if you’re helping me. We can kill the girl, too,” he offers, judging her reaction carefully. “Let’s both agree that we get rid of the competition and then we’ll duke it out. All right?”

She meets his eyes and eventually nods, cautiously letting him pull her up before dusting herself off. She can’t hide the small smile that pulls at her lips when she picks up the sword and straps it around her torso. She nods toward Kosan again before following him into the forest.

 

.,.

 

Her knife cuts into flesh easily and the responding yell is so satisfying that Helena’s head swims. She puts all of her weight into the thrust, but it’s off center and he gains leverage against her. He pushes her off with a groan and she falls onto the ground before wiping her nose, a stream of red staining her arm. She hears more than sees Sykes pull the knife out as he makes a strangled sound. She tries her hardest to get up and force herself to move, but once she does, she just stumbles to the ground again. She wonders why her legs decide to stop working now when they’ve worked all too well for most of her life.

She manages to stay steady on her knees, enough to try and fight back when Sykes hits her on the side of her head. The punch is backed with so much anger that Helena swears she can feel it in her own head. She falls flat on her face with the loud sound of the air being forced from her chest. Sykes lets out a sort of battle cry as he kicks her as hard as he can in the stomach and she starts to gag, trying her hardest to catch her breath.

Sykes laughs and it pisses her off that much more that she lunges for his leg, pain ricocheting throughout her entire body, and goes straight for the knife wound in the flesh of his thigh. She digs her fingers into blood before her head jolts. She falls to the ground harder this time. He’d hit her with something hard. She presses her face into the damp grass. She feels weak. Her head starts to ring and she reaches up toward her ear, fingers coming back covered in blood. Helena coughs, eyes focusing on the small puddle of blood by her head.

Sykes had, at some point, recovered and gotten up and she barely registers it when he starts to make his way toward her. He delivers another kick to her stomach and she’s too paralyzed to move, too defeated to fight back. She tunes out his laughter and screws her eyes shut and sees what she always has behind her eyelids. A little girl who looks just like her and this time, a new person with thick curly brown hair and a hesitant smile. The next time she’s kicked, she tells herself that it doesn’t hurt as much.

 

.,.

 

Kosan and Myka are breathing hard and making good time. It’s impossible to to tell, really, with the perpetual night, but there hasn’t been another cannon and that fuels Myka even more. She wants to cry when they find the Cornucopia empty, their lungs heaving in the now chilly air.

“Knew you’d come,” a voice says behind her and she spins on her heels, glaring at Sykes. Kosan turns slower, a hand reaching for the knife at his belt. “And don’t even think about it, big guy. That wouldn’t be the best for all of us.” He’s hidden in the shadow of the structure and that makes Myka all the more uneasy.

“Hate to break it to you,” Kosan growls. “But you’re not leaving this arena alive.”

“On the contrary,” Sykes says lightly. “I think you’d be surprised.” His head shifts and Myka knows that his attention shifts to her. “Wells is bleeding out by the second right now.” She doesn’t want to let herself react, but she can’t help but glance over at the line of trees and Sykes makes a satisfied sound. “Let the games begin.”

He comes out of the shadows wielding two weapons that seem to have appeared out of nowhere and Kosan has him in minutes. Myka watches for a moment, panic gripping her and rendering her immobile. The two boys struggle briefly before Sykes makes a good move and cuts a long gash in Kosan’s chest. More out of obligation than anything, Myka pulls her sword out and lunges. He isn’t expecting it and he tumbles over from the weight of her. He prevents her from making any effective stabs at him before roughly rolling away from her. He glances over at his knife, still lodged in Kosan’s chest.

The cannon goes off and he pulls it from the flesh. “And now it’s just the two of us.” He flips the long machete in his hand, the weapon already caked in blood.

She matches him, sword dripping scarlet and tight in her hand. Aches and pains fade away and all she can feel is the blossoming anger bubbling in her chest. She looks him over, noticing the slight favoring  of his left leg. She doesn’t see any obvious wounds, but she doubts he’s made it this far unscathed.

He cocks his head almost teasingly. “So, Miss Bering, how is this going to play out?”

She makes the first move, swinging broadly at him and the moment before impact, turning her sword so the broad side of the blade hits his right thigh squarely. He lets out a cry of pain, buckling while at the same time lunging at her. He grabs onto her left arm and they pull at each other a moment before he raises his blade. She deflects it, the ring of metal on metal ringing in her ears. His foot darts out and catches her unaware, so she falls flat onto her back with the breath in her chest leaving her in a cloud of hot air.

He’s on her instantly and has a knife to her throat. He shifts his weight, digging his knee into her thigh and the weapon slightly deeper into the skin of her throat. He slowly gets up, being careful to continue to holding her down. She cries out when he kicks her, coughing blood into her hands and she can pinpoint the exact moment she feels one of her ribs break. Her face, littered with cuts and scrapes, stays defiant.

“I’m not afraid of you,” she growls through gritted teeth, clamped down in pain.

“Really?” he sneers, crouching down and grabbing a fistful of her hair. “I think you should be.” With no hesitation, he slams her head repeatedly into the metal ground. When he finally lets go, she rolls over and groans, clutching her stomach while her head spins. He kicks her in the back.

“I’m not going to let you stand between me and my /victory/,” he bloats. “Your friend got rid of fucking MacPherson for me and then was putty in my hands. You’re the only thing in my way, Five.” He leans down next to her head and whispers the next words into her ear. “I’m going to stab you right between your beautiful eyes.”

She coughs. “You can’t kill me,” she manages, seeing hesitance flicker in his eyes. “You can’t do it.”

“The hell I can!” he yells, kicking her again. She feels blood leak out the corner of her mouth and she tastes the iron. She turns onto her back and stares at him, reasoning that if he was going to kill her, he’d have to look her in the eyes. He stares at her in silence, before reaching for the clean knife in his belt. He lets out a surprised sound when something pulls him out of Myka’s view.

She can’t find the energy to follow the movement, head aching as well as her whole body. Finally, she finds the strength to look toward the scuffle. Sykes and Helena fighting at knifepoint, as Myka ignores her protesting body to get to her feet, using her sword as leverage. She staggers toward Sykes, nodding toward Helena briefly before going at Sykes from behind. Her sword cuts into his neck like scissors into paper and he drops to his knees and falls over. Myka moves similarly, falling to her knees.

Helena rushes to her, or at least, tries to. She pulls the girl to her, tangling her fingers in Myka’s blood matted curls and ignoring her pain. They stand like that, Myka breathing in the musky scent of Helena’s neck and the older girl pressing kisses to Myka’s hairline. Helena slumps in Myka’s arms after a time and in confusion, Myka slowly helps her to the ground. When Helena starts to shake, she allows herself to panic.

“Are-are you hurt?” Myka asks frantically, searching for a wound on Helena’s body. Helena removes her hand from just below her upper chest, where the fabric of her shirt is drenched in blood. Her fingers drip scarlet as she pulls them away. Helena lifts her head to look at the digits before falling back again.

"I'm sorry," she murmurs. "It was the only way I could think to save you." She coughs and her lips are soon covered in blood.

"No," Myka argues, shaking Helena's shoulders to keep her awake. "No! You don't get to apologize for dying! Don't do this to me. /Please/." Helena's eyelids are quickly falling shut and she reaches feebly for Myka's hand.

"Someone help! Please - send a parachute or-or something!" Myka yells, her voice laced with fury and desperation. Helena pulls at her hand weakly.

"Myka," she chokes out, before smiling softly when green eyes immediately flick toward her own. "Be brave."

"Oh... Oh god, Helena."

"... Promise me, Myka."

She can barely talk through the tears. "I will."

Helena gulps, swallowing the blood in her mouth. "I love you, sweet girl." She smiles faintly.

"Me, too," Myka intones, her head pressing against Helena's shoulder. She doesn't register the cannon going off or the announcement that she's won. “I love you,” she sobs, shaking so hard as someone tugs on her arm and fighting weakly when they try and pull her away from Helena's body. There’s a sharp pain in her neck and she feels the restraints tighten around her arms and slowly, the sedatives fall into effect. She gazes at Helena with blurred vision until everything fades away.

 


	12. epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Tell me,” Mrs. Frederic starts, eyes twinkling curiously. “Who could’ve lasted as long as you did? Who was as strong as you?”
> 
> “Pete or - or Claudia. His family needs him and she had such a life ahead of her… And - and…” /Helena/. “She saved my life,” Myka says quietly, forgetting for a moment that the woman across from her was the one who allowed it. “She deserves it ten times more than I do. She deserves life, not… not to get shit on by the Capital. More than once.”

Myka can’t breathe.

She knows that it’s a nightmare and she knows that she’s been doing better but everything feels too real. The blood feels warm on her fingers and squishes under her feet. The yells she hears echo in her head and she hears them even when she’s awake. This time, she watches as a form on the ground is kicked over and over, unable to do anything about it even though her entire being screams otherwise. The pool of scarlet in the grass grows bigger by the second and eventually Myka falls silent, tears streaming down her face.

She opens her eyes to the dim light of her hospital room. It’s the one she’s been in for a week but not the one she’d woken to that first night. When she’s awake, every time she closes her eyes she sees the one face she doesn’t want to see. She can’t even bring herself to say her name. Not yet, at least. Behind closed eyes, she sees dark hair, once so beautiful, matted with blood and deep red dripping from cold fingertips. Blood catches in her throat and she chokes and Myka is powerless.

She prefers the empty feeling of the bland hospital room to watching the one she loves die over and over behind her eyelids.

 

.,.

 

She punches blindly, arms attempting to hold her down as screams rip from her throat.

Eventually, they try and strap her down, voices raising with alarm when she throws an instrument across the room to the wall. The stench of Sykes is all around her, as he pins her down and growls into her ear. She fights him, pushes him away from her and screams Helena’s name through her tears as she punches his face until he’s unconscious. The arena fades away when she hears a familiar voice saying her name.

She forgets Sykes and blinks, opening her eyes to a sterile room. Her arms flex against tight restraints and sweat drips from her forehead. Artie’s thumb strokes her cheek from where his hand is resting. He looks concerned and gives her a slight smile when she registers him. She doesn’t remember him being this gentle before, but then again, she hadn’t been a victor. She corrects herself. There are no victors, only survivors.

“Myka,” he murmurs. “Do you know where you are?”

She nods, falling onto the bed. The restraints slack. She knows there will be bruises on her arms. “A hospital,” she croaks, her voice scratchy from disuse. "The Capitol."

“Good, good.” Artie moves to her side, still taking her in carefully like she’s a cornered animal. “Listen…” His hand finds hers, and the contact surprises her. She curls her fingers around his though and finds it oddly comforting. “You were hurt very badly in there. Broken ribs, cuts, and bruises. Those last two will heal fairly quickly thanks to these guys.” He gestures toward the window in the room, which opens to one of the hallways. “Your ribs will be bruised for a while but they should heal eventually. You won’t be running any long distances for some time.” His voice lightens at that last part and he tries to smile again, but ends up just looking at her sadly. “You did good in there. Don’t believe any differently, Myka.”

She doesn’t nod this time. Suddenly the close proximity feels suffocating and the faces of her friends flash in her mind. “And the nightmares?” Artie’s gaze shifts back to her slowly, as if he hadn’t expected her to respond. “Will they ever go away?”

He waits, as if tasting his words before speaking them. “If yours do, you’ll have to tell me your secret.” Myka is reminded suddenly that he is a victor himself and has gone through this before. A small part of her doesn’t feel as alone as her nightmares led her to believe.

 

.,.

 

She hasn’t spoken to anyone since she woke up for the first time. Artie comes in occasionally to update her and remind her about important things, but she pays him no mind. Today is no different. When he comes in, he sits in his usual chair by the window and waits for about ten minutes before speaking. He brings in a book like he’s going to read it and it painfully reminds her of home. She feels like the home she once had is no longer and when this is all finally over, she’ll have nowhere to go back to.

She reminds herself that it will never be over.

Artie sighs from his spot in the corner. “Your stylists are coming later today to get you prepped for the Closing Ceremony. The Victory Tour is in two weeks. They’re going to prep you for that, too.”

Her head snaps up at his voice and she watches the muscles in his neck work as he speaks. His words remind her of the interviews and immediately she thinks of one in particular, where the tribute was dripping with charm and fake confidence. She had looked so gorgeous in that dress. She thinks of the others like Pete, who had won over the crowd with his goofy antics or Claudia, who played the cunning little girl when all she was was innocent. All of their faces flash in Myka’s mind and she shakes her head slightly. She feels the guilt wash through her almost painfully, as though she had been the one to cut their throats.

“Myka?” Artie’s voice brings her back to the present. “Myka, are you listening to me?”

“Yeah,” she says quietly and he looks surprised that she’s spoken. “You said that I need to make sure that the Capitol sees a victor. Someone worthy of winning.”

“That’s not…” Artie stands up, walking over to the bed slowly. “You are worthy, Myka. I should’ve told you this sooner, but I was with you since day one." He means it to be comforting but rage flares through her.

“And what about Pete?” she growls, looking at him with acid in her gaze. “Were you with him, too? And Claudia or Joshua or Leena and - and…” She still can’t say her name. “What about Sam Martino? Did they deserve to die? Do their deaths make me /worthy/ of surviving this?” She bites out the last sentence. She sits up in bed and sees the faded bruises from her restraints a week ago. She’d needed them for the first few nights but the nightmares got less violent and more sad.

“It’s not your fault,” Artie says gently. “It will never be your fault, Myka. It's always theirs." She knows he doesn't mean the other tributes and somehow the anger within her lessens.

She shakes her head, tears pricking at the corners of her eyes. She wipes at them uselessly and starts to shake. “I can’t promise anything tonight,” she says after a moment. “I don’t know what I'm going to be like." I don't know myself anymore.

The statement echoes in her brain, reflecting her feelings and state of being.

 

.,.

 

She chokes. She shuts down through the ceremony and is unresponsive. She’s an echo of the tribute that walked into these games and it makes even Cesar uneasy. Artie tells her after that it’s happened before and that the audience loved it. Apparently it added to the tragedy of it all. She is carted around to meet and shake hands with various gamemakers and she can’t help but look at them, at their hands mostly, and imagine them making decisions in the control room. She can’t imagine what it feels like to decide who lives and who dies and the thought makes her want to throw up. She remembers hearing once that gamemakers quit after a few years.

She feels foreign by the time she goes back to where she’d stayed during training. She peels off the clothes they’d put her in and looks at herself in the mirror. The shadows under her eyes are easier to see in the dramatic light of the bathroom, despite the stylists’ best attempts to cover them. She reminds herself of death, her skin pale and sallow. Her fingers run over the various bruises coating her abdomen. She doesn’t have any scars, just bruises that will go away soon. She presses into one, just below her ribs, and winces, letting out a strained breath as the pain increases. She finds every bruise and squeezes them, desperate for these signs of what she’s been through to remain.

She’s afraid if she lets them fade she won’t be able to remember if it had all been real.

She leaves the bathroom once she’s done, walking slowly to the wardrobe and pulling it open. She slips into something comfortable and goes off in search of some water. Artie isn’t in the large living room that is down the hall from her own bedroom and it takes her a moment to realize she isn’t alone and she does so only after filling a glass with water. She leans against the counter, sipping the cool liquid and paying attention to how it feels going down her throat.

The woman wears what Myka calls in her mind “Capitol garbage”, legs crossed together tightly in a pink skirt. She looks up when she feels Myka’s gaze on her, meeting the victor’s eyes unwaveringly. She stands, smoothing out her skirt once she does. “Hello, Myka. My name is Mrs. Frederic.”

The fact that Myka has never seen this woman before tells her exactly who she is. “You’re the Head Gamemaker.”

“Temporarily,” the woman muses. “Please, sit. We have a lot to discuss.”

Myka moves to the other couch and falls into it, crosses her legs in front of her and holding her water in her lap. “Are you going to make it a habit to visit the victors in the middle night several weeks after they’re out of the arena?” She stares at the woman’s hands, wondering which finger pressed the button that caused an avalanche that almost killed her. She wonders if her hands had been still when Pete, Claudia, and Leena were slaughtered.

“I don’t imagine I’ll be working for the games coordinators very much longer, I’m afraid.”

“Why me?” The question comes without Myka’s permission and her tone could kill. After a moment, she meets the woman’s eyes. “Why did you let so many others…”

“You’ve won, Myka. Many would be happy in your position. You’re the victor.”

“/Won/,” Myka scoffs. “I didn’t /win/ anything. I lost my friends,” she spits. Her knuckles are white against the glass in her hand. “It shouldn’t have been me.”

“Tell me,” Mrs. Frederic starts, eyes twinkling curiously. “Who could’ve lasted as long as you did? Who was as strong as you?”

“Pete or - or Claudia. His family needs him and she had such a life ahead of her… And - and…” /Helena/. “She saved my life,” Myka says quietly, forgetting for a moment that the woman across from her was the one who allowed it. “She deserves it ten times more than I do. She deserves life, not… not to get shit on by the Capital. More than once.”

“You’re talking about Helena Wells.” Mrs. Frederic’s voice is clear compared to Myka’s own shaky monotone. “Miss Bering have you heard of District 13?”

The change of pace is almost startling. Myka looks up at her, her eyebrows knit together in confusion. “In school when I was younger… Why?”

Mrs. Frederic begins speaking, explaining everything there is about what’s come of the abandoned district now. She explains that just because the district was obliterated, it doesn’t mean that the population ceased to exist. They adapted, moved underground, and began preparation to eventually overtake the Capitol. The words blur together in Myka’s head. Mrs. Frederic stops. “I’m asking you now to join us. Several of the leaders from Thirteen are interested in what you could add to our forces.”

Myka had always been fast to catch on, even when she was little. Now, sitting in the middle of the Capitol that the woman in front of her is talking of overthrowing, she feels as though her mind is slow to respond. So many factors come to her head. Her family, what would she do with them? She’s a victor, what would happen when she needed to mentor another set of tributes next year? It isn’t a factor of whether she’ll do it, only what will happen if she does. Still, she plays the defensive. “Why are you telling me this? I could go downstairs and report you to someone and you’d be out of a job and probably killed. And they’d go and erase your supposed revolution off the map.”

“You’re very perceptive,” Mrs. Frederic remarks. “No doubt you’ve already made a decision. As for motivation to choose to come with us, I think there’s something in District 13 that you’d very much like to see.”

Myka stares at her, hard. “Does Artie…?”

“Arthur is very much aware of what I am proposing to you. He was proposed the very same thing years ago and turned it down. He chose to stay updated and keep one foot in the Capitol and one foot in the revolution.”

“And my family?”

Mrs. Frederic lets just the hint of a smile echo across her face. “That’s up to you. As a unit, our forces are not yet strong enough to head together but will be soon. If you choose to keep them in your district, you are responsible if they are caught in the crossfire.”

Myka nods. She can understand responsibility, she always has. “I’ll do it,” she says at last. “But there is one thing that I need your help with before we leave.”

“We look forward to working with you.” Mrs. Frederic stands, holding out a hand for Myka to take. “No promises, but I will do my best with whatever you need.”

 

.,.

 

While Mrs. Frederic works on finding Christina Wells, Myka takes a train to every district for the victory tour. It’s hard looking into the faces of the other tributes’ parents, even Walter Sykes’. MacPherson’s brother glares at her from where he stands with his parents. In District 3, both podiums for the parents are empty and Myka cries into the microphone. She thanks the generosity of the people who kept Joshua Donovan alive and able to take care of his sister. She thanks the people who tossed out perfectly good food knowing that it would feed a little redheaded orphan. Leena’s parents are eerily calm and Myka expresses her gratitude to their daughter reverently.

In District 2, there is only a lanky, greying man standing where Helena’s parents are supposed to be. Myka knows both of them to be dead and makes an effort after the ceremony to talk to him. When she finally reaches him, she holds out her hand for a handshake but instead he gives her a hug.

“My name is William Caturanga,” he says once they’ve separated. “I was Helena’s mentor.” His eyes glitter sadly. “It is a pleasure to finally meet you, Myka.”

Tears come to Myka’s eyes and he hugs her again. “No, no, none of that,” he whispers into her hair. “I daresay things are not as they seem.”

Myka nods. “I’m sorry,” she chokes. “I’m sorry I couldn’t…”

“It’s not your fault, dear.” He lets out a chuckle. “Don’t blame yourself. Take it from me, it gets old quite fast.” He looks around, taking in the small groups of people and judging if they’re within earshot. He leans in conspiratorially. “I’ll be seeing you again in Thirteen,” he whispers. He kisses the top of her hand and clears his throat, straightening once again to his full height. “Until then.”

She nods, not finding the right words, and watches him walk away.

The train arrives in District 5 last, as customary. She makes her speech and thanks those who might have donated for a parachute and wraps up her speech fairly quickly. She walks through the crowds up to Pete’s mother and sister, bracing herself. Once she reaches them, Jane Lattimer eyes her carefully. She stops in front of them. “I’m sorry,” she says eventually.

Jeannie Lattimer chokes out a sob and flings her arms around Myka’s shoulders. Jane smiles sadly, shrugging when Myka’s wide eyes look to her for help. Finally, Jeannie extracts herself. “I’m sorry,” she signs. “But you should not be. The Capitol is responsible for my brother’s death, not you.” Her hands shake as they move, but Myka can still make out what she is saying.

“Thank you for taking the time,” Jane says, signing the words at the same time. “To come over and talk to us.”

Myka nods. “Thank you for raising one of the best friends I’ve ever had.”

Tears prick at Pete’s mother’s eyes and Myka hugs her.

After they say goodbye, Myka sees that the plaza has mostly cleared, except for three people standing partly off to the side and near the stage. She makes her way over to them and is halfway when Tracy starts to run. She hugs her sister tightly and realizes that she missed her family more than she ever thought. She hugs her mother and her father, who for once doesn’t smell like alcohol. He smells like books and he smells like home. And her mother hugs her tightly like she never wants to let go. The three of them stand like that, enveloped in each other’s arms and sharing tears.

Tracy reaches for something that Myka had forgotten about. The silver chain doesn’t shine anymore. Myka figures that her stylists must have put it on for the tour, mostly because she has no recollection of it after leaving the arena. Tracy hugs her again and Myka wonders if the necklace gave her hope.

She gets to spend the night at home, before she makes the move to District 13. Myka stands in her old room and takes everything in, from the books on the shelves and her meticulously made bed. She starts to pack her bag, putting all of her familiar clothing in it and at least one shelf of books. She tries laying down, but as usual, she can’t sleep. She stares at the ceiling and is reminded of that night before the Reaping. It all feels like it was so long ago, when it’s only been a little over a month.

She’s seventeen and tomorrow she’s going to join a revolution against her government.

She gets out of bed and goes downstairs. She’s not surprised when she sees her father sitting in the armchair in the corner. She is surprised to see he’s nursing a glass of water instead of whiskey. She sits down on the end of the couch that’s close to him, leaning back into the familiar fabric with a sigh. “I’m leaving tomorrow,” she says in the darkness. “I have to maintain appearances and I won’t be living in the Victor’s Village all that much.”

Her father doesn’t say anything, just takes another drink of water. After a while, Myka’s eyes feel heavy. She fights it, doesn’t want horrible memories haunting her here of all places.

“I’m so proud of you, Myka.”

That isn’t what she was expecting. “For what?” Her voice is just barely above a whisper.

“For fighting.” He reaches across the small space between them and places a hand on hers. “It’s because of me that you… that you almost never came home. A thousand apologies wouldn’t make up for it.”

She opens her mouth to say something, but nothing comes. Part of her had held on to that, that her father was responsible.

“I stopped drinking, you know. Trying to stay sober. It helped me make it through watching you go through hell out there.”

“I always told myself that the day you stopped drinking was the day that I’d stop resenting you.”

He laughs. “That so? Well, if were in your shoes, there wouldn’t be a day that would go by that I wouldn’t hate me.”

Myka squeezes his hand. “I don’t hate you, Dad.”

“Yeah, well.”

 

.,.

  


After saying goodbye to her family, promising to come back eventually, which she will, she meets Artie before getting on the train. He shuffles awkwardly and stands shock still when she hugs him, relaxing into the embrace only after a moment. “Thank you,” she says to him. “For everything.”

He nods gruffly. “Be careful.”

She’s about to step onto the train when she remembers something. “Artie?”

“Yes?”

“You don’t have to answer,” she begins, “but why did you decide to stay when they asked you?”

He looks at her for a long moment, as if judging what she’ll say to his response. “Vanessa Calder is the name of the woman who was in charge of your treatments,” he says. “I met her several years ago.” He doesn’t explain further, but Myka doesn’t need him to. She waves goodbye and walks into the small compartment. Train hallways are getting familiar and she’s used to the cramped feeling within them.

In the lounging area, Mrs. Frederic sits on the couch next to a small girl. Myka stops walking. Even at two and a half years old, Christina Wells is exactly like her mother. Dark tresses of hair are thick on her head, even if they aren’t very long. She’s asleep at the moment and her eyes, which Myka is sure will be an exact replica of Helena’s, are closed. Part of Myka wonders if there was even another person involved in the making of this little girl. She goes to sit on the edge of the table in front of the couch, tentatively reaching out a hand and letting it rest on the toddler’s forehead.

“Where did you find her?” she asks quietly, not even bothering to look up at Mrs. Frederic, who she’s more recently come to know as Irene.

“An orphanage. The Capitol has a few larger ones and someone was making sure that she didn’t get adopted out.”

Myka lets her arm fall to her side, still staring at the girl. “I don’t know how to raise a kid,” she says suddenly. “I don’t know why I even did this.”

Irene is silent, knowing that Myka isn’t really talking to her at all.

Myka looks at her. “Are you staying in Thirteen?”

“No,” she responds, shaking her head. “I have some unfinished business in the Capitol and I have to maintain appearances.” Myka nods, turning her attention back to the girl. Irene gets up then, quietly making her way to another part of the train and leaving the two of them in peace.

“Christina,” Myka breathes, tasting the name on her tongue. “I’m so sorry.” A little bit of drool falls out of the girl’s mouth and Myka lets out a choked laugh, reaching forward to wipe it away. She moves over onto the couch, settling herself behind the sleeping girl and hesitantly wrapping her arm around the little form. She knows she won’t be able to sleep anytime soon, so she just analyzes the plump curves of the toddler’s face and lets her fingers follow the lines of black hair. Myka tries to think of everything she knows about babies and all she can remember is Tracy as a toddler, herself only being around five.

“I have no clue how I’m going to do this,” she whispers. “But there is no way that I’m going to leave you.”

 

.,.

  


Mrs. Frederic tells her that the train will return to the Capitol once Myka’s been dropped off. They’re due to arrive soon, having just exited District 12. The two of them sit in the dining car of the locomotive, while Christina sleeps on a chair in the corner. Irene explains how things work in District 13, telling Myka that every morning each person receives a schedule that directs them where they’re supposed to go. Meals are very important and highly regulated, which Myka could have guessed.

“You’ll be allowed about a week to get settled in,” she continues before glancing over at the sleeping toddler. “I would suggest getting to know the day care administrators. Once you become part of District 13, you’ll be training regularly and I would guess that you’ll be promoted to a leadership position soon.” She folds her hands together in her lap and looks at Myka proudly. “I’ve arranged that something familiar be put in your room. I hope you’ll like it.”

“Thank you,” Myka echoes, still thinking about the fact that she’s joining a revolution. The night after she’d accepted, she’d laid in bed all night and thought about her reasoning. It all came back to Helena and everything they’d both been forced to live through. She wants to do this for Helena and, she looks over at Christina as she thinks, for this little girl. She meets Mrs. Frederic’s eyes. “You’ve done so much.”

The woman nods slightly, just as the train comes to a stop. “Here’s a map. You should take some time to explore. There’s your room right there.” She lets out a breath of air. “You were right in doing this, Myka.”

“What else was I supposed to do?” she breathes. All she sees in this is the eventuality of taking down the people who took Helena away. She stands and picks up Christina, who’s just awoken.

“Yes,” the little girl says and Myka smiles. They make their way to another part of the train, a man trailing behind Myka with her luggage. Guards meet them outside and lead the way to the underground entrance, Myka’s observative eyes taking in everything. She memorizes the code they use to enter and doesn’t let herself look at the map as they wind through hallways and down elevators. Eventually, they come to a door with a number on it and one of the guards introduces it as her room. She watches them disappear down a grey hallway before going in.

She almost drops Christina.

The figure asleep in the bed moves slightly, groaning under her breath in unconsciousness. Myka makes a small sound at the back of her throat and sets the toddler on the ground before going over to the bed. She stands off to the side, taking a staggering breath. “Helena?”

Dark hair hides the figure’s face. Myka sits on the edge of the bed and brushes it back, heart speeding up. A hand flashes out and closes around her wrist so fast she barely has time to react. Helena is sitting up in an instant, dark and menacing glare melting into relief in an instant. Myka is too stunned to move, the hand locked in Helena’s grip starting to shake. Helena releases it, throwing her arms around Myka with a breathed out, “You’re here.”

Myka breathes in the scent of Helena’s hair and it makes her realize she’s never smelled it when it wasn’t combined with the odor of blood. She shakes with a sob and Helena holds her tighter.

“How are you even /alive/?” Myka manages through her crying. “You… you /died/. I watched you… I watched you die.”

“Shh, darling,” she whispers into Myka’s hair. “I’ll tell you later, I promise. But I’m here.”

Myka nods in the crook of Helena’s neck, not necessarily caring that she’s getting tears everywhere. Helena’s hand moves circles on her back and the two of them sit there, enveloped in each other and oblivious to the world around them. Christina, watching from the floor, thumps her small hand against the hard ground and Helena freezes.

She pulls slowly out of Myka’s arms and looks at her wondrously. Christina mumbles a small “Yes.”

Helena’s out of the bed in an instant, picking up her daughter and spinning around. She pulls the small body against her chest and Myka can’t help but smile.

 

.,.

  


_A woman sits alone in the control room, finger hovering over the com button. The camera angle shows a close up of the winning tribute’s unconscious form before flipping to her face, a roll of credits playing near the bottom of the screen. She finally presses the button, listening to the static on the other end for a moment before speaking._

_“Stanton, do you think you can save the girl from two?” The cameras, still trained on Myka but no longer broadcasting, show the confusion that crosses one of the retrieval personnel’s face._

_“Ma’am?”_

_“Just bring her to Vanessa, if you will. Only if her life is salvageable.”_

_Miles away in the arena, Theodora Stanton wonders if she heard right. She looks over at the body on the ground. “Can you take her up?” she asks her partner. “I’ll go with this one.” She moves to Helena’s side._

_“Sounds good. Next drop should be here soon.”_

_She watches as the body of the winner and her partner are lifted into the air and onto the hovercraft. Theodora drops to her knees once it’s out of sight, peeling back the blood soaked clothing to examine the wounds. “Can’t save you if you’re dead,” she murmurs, fingers finding the right spot on the girl’s neck. She holds her breath and lets out a small puff of relief when she feels the faint thump of life under her fingertips. It didn’t do well to get on the Head Gamemaker’s bad side._

_“Can’t say I’m surprised. You’re lucky,” she says to the unconscious girl. “Guess she’s feeling merciful.”_

 

.,.

 

_“Miss Wells.”_

_The voice is what does it. That voice, one she’s heard so many times before and now so dearly wishes not to hear, brings her back into the real world. It forces her to stop pretending that she’s dead. Forces her to stop pretending that Myka won._

_She opens her eyes, sees him sitting near the edge of her bed with a woman beside him. She doesn’t speak. She’s refused to ever since she woke up in the hospital room, emitting only screams when they tried to restrain her after she’d attempted to rip away her bandages. Now, strapped down with drugs flowing in her system, all she can manage is a glare. Her heartbeat quickens, evident when the beeping of the monitor gets louder._

_“This is Mrs. Frederic,” Caturanga says slowly._

_“I know who she is,” Helena spits, not even bothering to hide her distaste. “She’s the reason that Myka is dead.”_

_The woman has the audacity to smile and Helena practically growls, her arms tightening against the restraints. A hand goes to rest on her leg and she wishes more than anything that she could kick the smirk off of Mrs. Frederic’s face._

_“Contrary to what you may believe right now, Helena, you did not win the Hunger Games.” The woman’s dark eyes meet her own and Helena’s anger dissipates._

_“What do you mean?”_

_“You were chosen for - “_

_“No, I don’t care about that. Is Myka Bering alive?” Helena’s eyes hold such intensity that Caturanga falls a step back._

_The woman regards her coolly. “Yes.”_

_Helena hides her emotions well, masking her face so that it remains as still as untouched water. “May I see her?”_

_“Not yet. Not until you’ve considered my proposition.”_

 

.,.

 

They’re lying in Myka’s new bed, a sleeping toddler between them. Helena’s fingertips trace the curve of Myka’s face while Myka’s hand rests on the other girl’s hip. “And then they sent me here,” Helena continues. “Irene told me that you’d be here eventually and I almost couldn’t believe that it was true.” He gaze moves down to Christina. “And that you… that you somehow managed to find…”

Myka doesn’t say anything, doesn’t express how much she would’ve hated herself had she forgotten the one thing she’d promised to Helena. Helena smiles at her and somehow it feels fuller, less empty than the last time she’d seen Helena smile. Myka’s eyes flood with tears again and she turns into the pillow. Helena’s hand finds her cheek as she shakes.

“I’m sorry, Helena. I’m so sorry.”

“Shh,” Helena says again, pulling Myka’s face in closer and pressing a kiss to her forehead. “There is no need to apologize,” she breathes.

Myka shakes her head in the slightest. “I don’t deserve this… you. Why did they have to die for this?”

Helena sighs and pulls her closer. “You deserve everything, Myka. You deserve it because you’re smart and you fight for what you believe. You wouldn’t be here if you didn’t. You aren’t being rewarded for fighting for your life.” She kisses the corner of Myka’s mouth and Myka can feel her next words ghosting on her lips. “You are alive. They didn’t die for you to live. They were killed by the very people we are now against. We are in this together.”

Myka reaches up and grabs Helena’s wrists, stroking the inside with her thumb. “I love you.”

“I love you, too,” Helena responds, before kissing her softly.

Christina reaches up between them and tries to grab Myka’s fingers. “Yes,” she says, and Myka’s beginning to suspect that that’s the only word she knows. Helena laughs and Myka smiles, bumping their foreheads together as she allows Christina’s tiny hand to wrap around her index finger.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there it is! Once again, HUGE thanks to my beta, Karo! (velmster on tumblr). 
> 
> And a HUGE thanks to you guys! I read every comment and tried to respond to as many as I could. Thank you so much for taking the time for every comment, every kudos, and every bookmark. You guys are the reasons that I kept writing. It is a huge motivation factor when there are people waiting for the next chapter, you know?
> 
> It was my New Year's Resolution last year to finish a multi chapter fic and this remains the longest thing that I have written - ever. I definitely plan on trying to contribute more to the fandom. I started this in November, but it had been in the works for the better part of last year. 
> 
> Again, THANK YOU GUYS SO MUCH. Really.


End file.
